


Chips Are Falling

by SueG5123



Category: The Newsroom (US TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-15
Updated: 2014-11-14
Packaged: 2018-02-08 23:43:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 27,568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1960728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SueG5123/pseuds/SueG5123
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Will and Mackenzie in the immediate aftermath of Election Night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

They reached the door to her flat.  
“—And you’re home.”  
“Come in?”  
Will shook his head. “Mac, you’ve been operating on all cylinders for weeks. You need some rest. And if I come in— you won’t get it. Because I will want to make love to you.” He gave a slight smile. “My honesty is undermining my baser desires.”  
She pushed the door open and took his hand.  
He had never been in Mac’s flat and he looked around with curiosity while she dropped her coat on a chair and turned to close and lock the door behind them. Nice view of Times Square. Comfortable clutter, books, papers. His eyes roved the dimly lit room and he saw a small framed photograph on a table next to the television, singular because it seemed to be the only piece of truly personal memorabilia in the room. He picked it up.  
“Actually—“ she began, “if I’d ever conceived the possibility of you coming by, I would have moved it. I wouldn’t want to appear – maudlin.”  
He replaced the frame on the table. “I don’t think it’s maudlin.” Then he reached for her hand. “Mac, really -- it’s been a long night. Nothing’s going to change between us overnight, so why don’t you let me kiss you goodnight and I’ll call you in the morning. “  
“Oh, no, Billy. I can’t let you go. I’ll be a terrible lover tonight, a horrid blend of desire and exhaustion, I’m afraid. But I really have to be with you. ”  
Abandoning any further feigned resistance, Will closed the distance between them and pressed his lips to hers. 

The lovemaking was quiet but hurried, compromised by their mutual exhaustion and the need to prove this was no mere truce but the instrument of surrender for them both. Will had always been a considerate partner, but his attentions this night were largely in the service of his own desire, as if he sought to tame something wild and recently discovered within himself. When, finally, he gave her a lasting, gentle kiss and made to roll off her, she clutched at him.  
“Please – just stay like this a few moments longer.”  
“I thought it might be getting uncomfortable—“  
“You make me feel protected.”  
He dipped his head back into her neck and trailed soft kisses around the hollow of her throat. “Mackenzie,” he murmured, “you’ve got protection, now – you’ve got a damned body man for the rest of your life –” He sighed. “But my knee and elbow are reaching their limits…”  
“Oh, God! I’m sorry, I forgot!”  
He fell into his pillow and pulled her to his side, her head resting on his shoulder and his arm wrapped around her. “Maybe you’ll still feel protected this way?”  
She nodded.  
“Everything’s going to be okay, Mac,” he said, meaning Genoa, Dantana’s lawsuit, News Night –  
Us.  
“I want to believe that.”  
“You should. We’re going to be okay, so everything else will be okay, too.”  
“I feel as though I’ve been in free fall for months – maybe years,” she whispered. “Spinning in the air, nothing solid beneath me.”  
“The fall has stopped, Kenz. I’ve got you. ” He shifted closer and kissed her hair.

Mackenzie woke first, a guilty hostage to natural circadian rhythms. It was morning, but still early, and the room was filled with the diffused light of the city’s concrete-and-steel canyon. She lay there watching Will’s chest rise and fall, thinking about all the breaths in a day – in a life.  
In three missing years.  
Well, the years themselves weren’t missing. But they were like books with empty pages.  
“Will?” she whispered, lightly touching his hair with her fingers. “Will?”  
He opened a single eye. “Go back to sleep.”  
She laughed and it was music for him to hear. With an irresistible sleepy smile, he pulled her over to him. After a comfortable period of drowsing and languorous touching, she noticed the time and pushed up on one elbow.  
“We’ve missed the first pitch.”  
“We’re going to miss all the pitches for the next few days. I asked Charlie for the rest of the week. He’s bringing Terry Smith up from Washington.” He frowned. “I thought he’d bring Jane, but he insisted on Terry.”  
She gave a wry smile. “Damage control on Charlie’s part. Jane would just finish what Dantana started, bringing ACN to its knees.” Then she remembered. “”What am I doing, thinking about meetings? I was fired last night.”  
“You are so not fired—“  
They lay there in comfortable silence for a few minutes.  
“We need some time. We need to figure out what we’re doing next.”  
“Are we hiding?” she asked, alluding to the embarrassing allegations contained in Dantana’s petition, due to be filed that morning.  
“Not hiding,” he said after a few moments reflection. He rubbed his jaw. “It’s hard for me to hide. Mine is the face on the billboard, on the side of the bus, in the glossy advert in the magazine at the checkout. This isn’t what I signed up for, but it’s part of the package.” He sighed. “What I hate is that the rest of you are going to be pulled into this whirlpool with me. Elliott and Sloan – and they’re still on-air this week. You and Jim, Maggie, Don – you probably have a few days of anonymity left, until the weeklies hit the newsstands on Friday. Then watch out for the paps on your doorstep.”

“Coffee?” she greeted him as he came into the kitchen, smelling of soap, barefoot and wearing only jeans.  
“Yeah, thanks.” He took the mug from her. “We won’t be in the papers yet,” he said, gesturing to the Times and Daily News on the kitchen counter. “Maybe the afternoon editions.”  
“Well, I’ll take my shower now,” she said.  
He grabbed his phone. “I’m gonna make some calls. Check in with Charlie. Ask Scott to send someone over with some… clothes for me.”

He was using a knife to fish a bagel out of the toaster when she returned.  
“Is that safe?”  
“Just another of my talents. Toaster repair. Pettyfogger. The face and voice of the now-disgraced ACN News.” He plated several bagels and put the jam and cream cheese on the counter.  
“Did you reach Charlie?”  
“I’ll have to try again later. Millie said he’s in a high level conference with Leona and Rebecca.” He crossed his arms. “Hey, I’ve made some unilateral decisions, but they affect you, so we need to talk about them.”  
She put her mug down, unsure what to expect. “Go on.”  
“Mac, somebody said it in a movie, but once you’ve figured out who you want to spend the rest of your life with, you want to start the rest of your life immediately. That’s me right now. I don’t want to start a day without you near me. So, I want you to pack a bag and move in with me for the rest of the week. We’ll figure out where we’re going to live long term, but I need you with me right now. Every night, every morning.”  
She leaned against the kitchen counter and tilted her head with an expression of incredulity.  
“Second, I want to marry you right away. I don’t know what you want, you’re going to have to tell me. Maybe you want a big affair, flowers and dresses and all that stuff – and we can do that, too, later, if you want. But I want to marry you right now, no waiting. Tomorrow, this week. Whenever we can make this happen.  
“Third.” He stepped toward her, his gaze steady. “I want to take you back to bed. I didn’t do right by you last night.” This last was offered with a shrug and a sheepish smile. “Mackenzie?” he said, noting her look of surprise. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”  
“A little cognitive dissonance. We’ve gone from glacial melt to the speed of light in the space of one day.” She moved to place her hand on his. “Everything you said is fine by me. I am relentlessly… shamelessly… helplessly in love with you, Will.”  
They kissed, with none of the tentativeness or self-consciousness of the night before. Her passion was fueled by the hunger of years of desire, the denial of that desire, and, somewhere, gratitude for a second chance. It felt so good, to be able to show him how much she loved him still, how much she had always loved him, how much she wanted to please him…  
He grabbed her hands and tugged her back down the hall.  
“Enjoy it now,” he said with wry amusement. “Enjoy it while it’s still illicit. You’ll think it’s a chore once we’re married.”  
“Not on your life,” she breathed.  
They rolled on the bed, kissing and tugging off their clothes. He pulled her on top of him and they sought once-familiar rhythms. He spent minutes exploring her breasts with his eyes and fingers, cupping the contours, stroking her skin, watching her face for reaction. Then his hands slid slowly down her shoulders to her forearms, fanning over her hips and brushing back the sheet she had gathered around her waist. “What--?” His left hand found the purple pucker of a long scar across her stomach and right flank. “Aw, Jeeze—“ he muttered, finally comprehending. His expression was full of grief.  
Mackenzie had momentarily forgotten, had allowed herself to become untethered to the memory of the scar and how it could betray her. She hurried to press his hand flat against the seam in her flesh. “Don’t look at that, Billy. We’re not going to talk about this now.” She took his hands in hers. “Please?”  
He nodded and said nothing more about it, because that was what she wanted. He even managed a half-smile to defuse the moment. “You’re beautiful, Mackenzie,” he murmured reassuringly.  
And strong…  
Mackenzie 2.0. Then and now.  
He found he was making the comparison in his mind. She had lost the girlish air, gained a personal gravitas. She moved with a more deliberate grace now. Her brown eyes had the same flash and sparkle as before, but also seemed to hold a new reticence. She seemed sadder, more vulnerable.  
And yet, still so beautiful…  
“Let me know when you’re close—“ he whispered, and when, minutes later, her eyes told him she was, he laced their fingers together. “I love you, Mackenzie.” She uttered a small gasp, followed by a long sigh, and he squeezed her hands and hurried to catch up.  
Later, his fingers kept tracing the pucker of the scar. Finally, she stilled them and clung to his hand on her belly.  
“Reason says I should have died,” she said quietly, looking at the ceiling. “I don’t think I particularly tried to stay alive. Jim was the one who fought for me – sometimes, he fought with me in order to make me fight.”  
Will said nothing, his head propped on his other hand, watching her as she explained.  
“I didn’t go looking for injury but when it happened, I was at peace with it. It just seemed like something else I had miscalculated, other consequences I had failed to consider.”  
Like knives. And confessions. Sharp, deep, gliding in quickly and doing their worst damage on the exit.  
She closed her eyes and the lashes seemed especially stark on her pale skin. “Military medicine being what it is, I have a lovely scar.” She hesitated. “I don’t mean that harshly. They saved my life, so I’m grateful. They just didn’t have time to put the pieces back the same way. Should I see a plastic surgeon?”  
“Does it make you self-conscious? When people see it?”  
“Will, until today, no one has seen it. No one. You know I’m not one for beaches so I haven’t been wearing a bikini and exposing my midriff.” She paused. “If it upsets you – if you find it ugly or disturbing, I’ll see someone about… minimizing it.”  
“Disturbing,” he repeated. Yes, that kind of proximity to death is bound to be disturbing. A scar is a real, visceral reminder. “It is—I mean, I do find it disturbing, but only because it symbolizes how nearly I lost you. ” He stroked her hair and stayed silent for minutes before he spoke again. “Keep the scar,” he said. “It’s a fucking medal. Your medal. You endured, you survived, you prevailed. But it’s important, so don’t take it away or minimize it in any way.”  
A few minutes after 3pm, the buzzer rang.  
“That will be Scott’s assistant, bringing me a clean shirt.” Will skinnied into his jeans and went to catch the door, calling over his shoulder, “Pack a bag, Mac. We’re shifting to my place.”  
She showered and changed, grabbing at essential hair products and toiletries and tossing them in the bag. She threw in casual clothes and something slightly nicer, in case she had to wear it to work on Monday.  
Will came back in the room sporting a ball cap and sunglasses with a tag still dangling. “Evidently, Scott seemed to think I needed a disguise, too.” He took them off, pulling at the tag on the glasses. “It’s actually a good idea. Might want to tone down the recognition factor for the next few days.” He slipped on the new dark blue T-shirt and stood before the mirror, eyeing his profile. “Maybe a mustache—“  
“Maybe not!”  
“Text from Charlie.” Will held up his phone.  
“What does he say?”  
“Under siege here. Your troops performing magnificently. Even Reese has astonished us. Now take her back to bed.”  
“Charlie wrote that?”  
“Guess my intentions were transparent.” He shrugged. “Hurry up. We’ve got to get going.”  
At the curb, a familiar figure opened the back door of the black Escalade.  
“Surprise,” Will said.  
“Lonny!” She gave him a quick hug before pulling back with a frown. “Does this mean Jerry fucking Dantana has put out a hit for us?”  
Lonny gave a short laugh. “I guess Mrs. Lansing wanted to make sure the paparazzi didn’t muss McAvoy’s hair or anything. So I’m back on this assignment until things settle down a bit.” He closed the door behind them and ran around to the driver’s side.  
Mac still wasn’t sure if this development was something to worry about.  
“I thought we’d have a better shot at keeping this low-key if we went to one of the boroughs,” Lonny began.  
“Good idea, Make it the easiest, traffic-wise.”  
Mac looked confused at their exchange. “Where are we going?”  
“We have to show up in person to apply for the license. Then, there’s a 24 hour cooling off period. In case you come to your senses and all.”


	2. Chapter 2

Getting the license had been a snap, no waiting, and, mercifully, no press. Proof of identity and cash to the City Clerk and they were back in the black Escalade.  
"Lonny, on the way back, I need to swing by the office for my laptop."  
Lonny's eyes shot up into the rear view mirror and he exhaled sharply. "You do know that this is broad daylight? And you want to go right to the curb of the AWM building? Think anyone with two brain cells to rub together can't figure out to hang around and wait for you to appear?"  
"I thought you'd take us to the garage—"  
"If it's open. They stop entries at 5pm, you know."  
Fortunately, the garage entry was still attended and Lonny was able to deposit Will at the closest bank of elevators.  
"I'll only be a few minutes. Did you want to come up?"  
Mac shook her head. "No, not right now. I want things to settle a bit. But, Will—hurry."  
On floor 23, Will moved quickly to his office, hoping not to be intercepted and delayed. Across the room, he saw Charlie, Jim, and Keefer talking across the bullpen and—too late—Charlie looked up in time to see him.  
Will grabbed his computer and shoved it into its bag, winding the power cord around his hand and shoving that in, too. He reached for a stack of folders.  
"You're back," Charlie grinned. Jim followed him into Will's office.  
"No, I'm not back. Just needed to pick this up. I'm off until Monday, remember?"  
"Actually, I need to talk to you about that." Charlie looked around Will's bookcase and credenza. "You got any glasses around here?" He opened the cabinet and grabbed the bottle of scotch.  
"Charlie, I don't have time for—"  
"Sure you do." Charlie improvised with two ACN mugs and the only glass tumbler he could find and poured three drinks. When Jim shook his head, Charlie barked, "Don't be such a candy-ass, Jim."  
Jim accepted the glass and held it awkwardly.  
Will sighed and put down the bag and papers he had gathered. "Seriously, Charlie, people are waiting on me."  
"Pretty bold of you to come here today. Right into the crosshairs, as it were."  
"Problems today?"  
"Security's been a big concern. Reese tripled the uniforms in the lobby but we've still had two breaches. Just shouters, nothing dangerous. So far." Charlie swirled his mug. "You're being careful?"  
"Yeah, Lonny's back. He's taking good care of us." Will thought he saw Jim's eyes flash at 'us.' "You doing okay, Charlie? You look tired."  
"I'm fine. Have your drink." He paused. "Will, I'm sorry, but I'm rescinding your time off this week. We need you back on air as soon as possible."  
"Charlie—"  
"You can have tonight. We need you back tomorrow night."  
"No, Charlie. Absolutely not. I've made—plans for tomorrow. Compromise? Friday night?"  
Charlie thought, then slowly nodded. "Yes, well, not soon enough for me. Leona's offered herself up to Scott Pelley at 60 Minutes for the full hour this Sunday night. Reese and I are taping a segment for Meet the Press on Friday afternoon. We need you out there, too. Full court press on the charm offensive. Plus—" he sighed, "there's rebellion in the ranks. Terry Smith couldn't leave D.C., and Jane is fomenting hate and discontent. The control room has virtually gone on strike without Mac: Herb has asked to retire and Joey's given notice; it was all Jim could do this afternoon to keep them in their seats for the show tonight."  
"Why the problem in control?" Will frowned. "Everyone seemed jolly enough last night."  
Charlie snorted. "Three magnums of champagne might have had something to do with the jolliness quotient. But there's a rumor running around—" He arched an eyebrow and paused.  
Jim set his glass on Will's desk, untouched. He glanced at the wall clock then back to Will. "I don't have a lot of time right now, so I've got to cut right to the chase. Mac's professional self-esteem cratered about a month ago, in case you hadn't noticed, and I think she's been running solely on determination ever since. So, I've gotta ask if you're really going to be there to support her, or if you're just waiting to pile on…"  
"Hey, you're out of line," Will shot back.  
"No, let me finish. This isn't soundproof glass, you know. Somebody heard something last night—Tess heard you fire Mac—"  
"That was – that was so never gonna happen. We argued, I was angry, I said something I didn't mean. She is definitely not fired."  
Jim moved closer to confront Will, and Charlie stepped between them.  
"Wait, Charlie," Will said, then looked to Jim. "Go ahead, get it all out."  
"Tess told me this morning. It sounded like you were throwing her under the bus. Firing—then, proposal. What the hell is going on? I just gotta ask, are you finally for real? Because this time, it's really going to kill her if you aren't. I haven't seen much out of you over the last couple of years, certainly nothing to warrant whatever she's believed about you."  
Will closed his eyes and fought back the words that sprang to his lips. He exhaled. "I am not going to argue with you, Scoo—Jim. But things have changed."  
"I hope so, Will. Because, like I said, things don't seem changed. Things seem like usual, this sadistic emotional kabuki theatre that the two of you do."  
  
Lonny braked in traffic. "That your fan club?" he said, nodding at a knot of gypsy photographers milling in front of 2 Hudson.  
In the backseat, in unison, Will and Mac slid on their sunglasses.  
The bodyguard whipped the wheel of the Escalade and they went down the garage ramp, leaving the daylight of street level behind them.  
"I didn't think—" Mac began, then stopped. She wasn't sure what she wanted to say. "Is this part of Dantana's lawyers' plan? Intimidation?"  
"Sure. Intimidation. Humiliation. Personal and professional. Anything they can lay on us to amp up the stress level. But the real plan is winning through attrition."  
"So, we—ACN, Leona, everyone—we just wait Dantana out?"  
"Yeah. Lawyer up. And outspend him. His attorneys have taken the case on the speculation that there will be a big payday eventually. They'll try to make us so uncomfortable that we'll be begging to settle. The first thing they're going to want to do is try us in the court of public opinion. It will be easier for them to portray us as buffoons than to actually prove institutional failure. In this kind of litigation, the deepest pockets will win. It'll be a mud-fest in the interim, but if we can stand it, and if Leona keeps spending, we'll outlast him."  
Lonny opened the door for them. "McAvoy, no unscheduled trips outside your apartment tonight, you understand? I need to talk to my boss, see if we ought to add another man for nights."  
Will shook his head dismissively. "They just want pictures."  
"Maybe that's all. Maybe they just want to invade your privacy. Maybe not."  
"Have there been threats?" Mac asked, suddenly attuned to the conversation. "Is Will being hunted?"  
"Well, something spooked the insurance people into reassigning me…"  
"They scare easily," Will countered.  
"Just do what I'm saying," Lonny urged. "Remember, hit #5 on your phone if you need me."  
"We will," Mac said, grabbing Will's arm. "Thanks, Lonny."  
  
Once inside the apartment, Will seemed positively ebullient. He lit the gas fireplace, then opened a bottle of white Bordeaux and poured two glasses. "We have groceries. How about fish and a salad?"  
"Maybe in an hour or two. The wine is good for now." Her fingers traced the rim of her glass. "Did Charlie or Reese tell you there were new threats?"  
"There are always new threats. Sampat's probably been chumming the water again." He shrugged. "It's okay. Dantana is the only real threat on the horizon, and Rebecca is hopeful. Everything's going to be fine. It'll be an uphill trudge to get the viewers back, but cream always rises to the top and so will we."  
She sighed and moved to the windows overlooking the front of the building. "Still, it's unsettling to think someone might be out there, waiting."  
He came over and took her hands. "Mac, you need to live on something more than air and anxiety. You need a few solid meals. Some hope. " The corner of his mouth hitched up. "Let Lonny worry about the outside stuff. Let me worry about you."  
"You're going to worry about me," she repeated. "Why?"  
"Because I love you. Because—well, because you need to be cherished. I'm a little late, but I got here eventually," he added sheepishly.  
Will's Blackberry chirped and he reached for it. His eyebrows went up. "Text from Nina Howard. A friendly word of advice, go to a different clerk's office tomorrow. You were recognized at the Office of the City Clerk and the paps will be there tomorrow." He looked to her. "Mac?"  
She had moved away from him, looking out the window to the lights of the cityscape.  
"I think—I think she's trying to be helpful. In her way." He swallowed, suddenly aware that he was stumbling into a mine field of his own making. "Mackenzie?"  
She kept her gaze trained outside. "I really didn't want to hear that name," she sighed. "Especially from you." She pulled her knuckles to her mouth in a gesture of worry. "And, what, I'm supposed to feel grateful that she's trying to tip us off? I hate that Nina thinks she can stage manage my life."  
"I'm sorry I said anything. Forget it." Will pressed a button on his phone. "Deleted."  
"You aren't going to text her back?"  
He came over to stand behind her. "Nah."  
"And we're going to a different clerk's office tomorrow?"  
"No. Same one."  
"But there will be cameras—people—"  
"There will always be cameras and people. I mean, what's to stop Sally-the-Paralegal from snapping us with her iPhone?" He pressed close, moving his arms around her.  
She twisted away from him, and he stood with his arms hanging at his sides, a frown beginning to crease his face.  
"What's wrong?"  
"You don't have to go through with this, you know. I appreciate the mercy fuck, but - pity will not sustain a relationship."  
"Pity? Mac, I don't understand. What are you talking about?"  
The damage I have done.  
He planted himself in front of her. "And—'Mercy fuck'? Where did that come from?"  
She gave a short bitter laugh. "It hasn't even been 24 hours and we're back to the same cycle—  
"You are doing this to yourself now, Mackenzie. I haven't done a thing—"  
"Well, you've done Nina." There. It was out.  
"Mac, look at me. I'm sorry Nina sent the text. I'm sorry I told you she sent the text. And I'm—well, I'm sorry about Nina. You know, all of it. But I'm not understanding what's happening right now. Come over here, talk to me," he implored, pulling her to the couch. "Talk to me. Tell me where these words are coming from. "  
She let him hold her hand but still wouldn't meet his eyes. "You can't propose simply because you feel sorry for me, for us, for something that used to be. I said yes and I've been gliding along with it, allowing it to fill the vaccum that my fantasies once occupied—but this is too important. And this is survival for me now, Will. I simply will not survive another—" she gestured, "whatever. I don't even have a word for whatever it is that we do."  
"Sadistic emotional kabuki."  
At this, she finally met his gaze. "Seriously?"  
"That's what Jim called it today. Er… he and I had a little dust-up when I dropped by the office." Will sighed and pushed back into the couch, bringing her with him. "Full disclosure, Mackenzie. Jim was pissed at me because someone heard me fire you last night and he wanted to know if I'm just screwing with your head. Again." He paused. "Maybe you're thinking that, too?"  
"Will—"  
"Let me—please, let me go first." He waited for her nod of acquiescence. "You aren't certain what transpired between our messy moment in the Hair and Make-up Room and when I ran to find you in the studio. You're looking for what triggered my light-bulb moment."  
"There had to have been something, Will. The way we left things earlier—we had two devastating arguments. I was physically reeling after the last one."  
"I know. I could see it. I felt awful. Mac, I'm getting tangled in my words, but bear with me. I'm not sure there was a light bulb moment. The light had always been on. You were always all I thought about. I tried to convince myself that I didn't care, I tried to act that part. Taunting you about the ring—that was just another way for me to deny to myself that I loved you—"  
"—with the side benefit of hurting me."  
"Yeah." He swallowed guiltily. "I have a lot to atone for. I can't fault you, or Jim, or anybody else, for wondering. But you must concede that I've never been indifferent to you. I have always been obsessed with you.  
"You know, Charlie came into my office last night during one of the breaks and launched into this long diatribe about resignations or something. I hardly heard a word of it. I just kept seeing your face, the way you left me, and realizing that I'd finally done something so horrible that you had blinked, metaphorically speaking, and knowing that I was on the brink of irrevocability. I was beginning to do things I would never be able to walk back, no matter how much I might want to. And somewhere in the back of my mind I had taken for granted the inevitability of us, that time was just ticking away until we could find our way back to one another, until we could discharge enough venom to make us viable again. But discharging venom is never ending, because more poison is always being manufactured. I had to stop lying to myself, I had to stop lying to you—because you believed me, and I was beginning to.  
"When did my hurt morph into something unrecognizable and cruel? Jim used that word to me today, sadistic. Taking pleasure in someone else's torment…"  
"Jim gets carried away," she began.  
"He used the right word today, but I knew it there in my office last night, with Charlie blathering on in front of me."  
"You aren't sadistic, Will. Don't say that. It isn't true."  
"It might be true." He was quiet for a few moments.  
"Do you know what tempering is? They take steel and expose it to extremes of hot and cold, to make it stronger. Haven't we finally tempered ourselves, Kenz? Can't we now withstand just about anything because we've already had the extremes? I've squandered so much time, I've been without you for years, and they've been barren, miserable years. I don't want to go back to that existence, I don't want to be that man anymore. Please, don't make me go back to that."  
He twined his fingers through hers before continuing softly. "If I'm going too fast, if you need more time to think-if you've changed your mind—tell me. Please, Mackenzie, just tell me what you're thinking, because I'm about to stop talking and I'm really afraid of what's going to come next."  
"Will, I've worn my heart on my sleeve for years, where you're concerned. I want your forgiveness, I want your love. I won't survive being cast out again."  
"You won't be. I swear."  
"Then stop me from being so afraid right now. Everything in my life is on the rocks and I'm just clinging to one thing and that's you, Billy—"  
"Don't be afraid. I'm here for you, and I'm trying to fix things." He pressed his lips to her forehead. "Okay, I'm finished. If I talk any more about feelings I'm going to have to surrender my Y chromosome."  
She gave a tired giggle.  
"Finally," he smiled in return. "I've spilled my guts and now I'm starving. Come on, there's a couple of fresh trout that need to be put in the oven."  
"I can help—"  
"Mac, you're great in the control booth, and in the sack, but not so much in the kitchen. So, tonight, I'm producing. But I'll let you be in my ear."  
  
A light November rain was falling on Thursday morning when they returned to the Bronx Office of the City Clerk, so only a few photographers were on hand on the pavement outside.  
"McAvoy! Over here!"  
"Getting married today, Will?"  
"Look this way!"  
Lonny Church was two paces ahead of Will, running interference. Will had pasted a tight smile on his face and gave a quick wave to what he hoped were friendly photographers before wrapping his arm around Mac and pushing her into the building.  
When they reached the designated antechamber, Charlie Skinner was there, squinting at his watch. He looked up as they entered, brightening immediately at the sight of Mackenzie. He pressed a kiss to her cheek. "I couldn't not be here for this," he explained.  
"I'm so glad, so very glad you are," she returned.  
The marriage officiant, as it happened, was an old acquaintance of Will's from the D.A.'s office (which explained the judicial waiver to the 24 hour wait rule) and arrived promptly. After introductions and handshakes, he read the standard marriage service. Smiling, bride and groom promised the usual. Only plain platinum bands, hurriedly procured by Will's agent's assistant and delivered to Will's apartment that morning, were exchanged.  
"You may kiss the bride." The judge paused while Will did so. "Congratulations. Now, we just need a few signatures."  
Charlie rocked back on his feet, smiling broadly. He said something to Lonny, but it seemed to come out as a mumble and Lonny just nodded, assuming it was some pleasantry not worth asking to have repeated. Mackenzie signed first, then passed the pen to Will. Will signed then turned to Lonny. "Feel like witnessing this?"  
Lonny grinned and signed.  
"Charlie?" Will offered the pen to Charlie, who reached for it but dropped it from numb fingers. The younger man stooped to recover the pen and press it back into Charlie's hand.  
Charlie frowned at the license for a few moments, before the judge, overbooked and needing to move on to the next appointment, pointed out the line for his signature. Charlie squinted again, gave a self-deprecating laugh, and moved the pen over the line. The pen again fell from his grasp and he put his hand out to Will.  
"Congratulations, son. Take care of her."  
The next day, Will would remember thinking that Charlie's handshake had seemed weak.  
"Mac." Charlie hugged her. "It's nice to see things work out the way they were always supposed to. Be happy," he whispered. "What now?" he asked, pulling back.  
"One day honeymoon," Will said, grabbing Mac's hand. "We'll be back in the office tomorrow morning."  
"You just got married—take till noon." Charlie smirked at his own faux largesse. "Hang Chew's has proven impossible this week, because of the suit—so we're going to do a little thing tomorrow night after the show in the executive dining room. Let the staff blow off a little steam. Act as a little reception from your staff. If that's okay-?"  
"Lovely," Mac murmured. "I want to see them all."  
Will began to help Mackenzie on with her coat. "See you tomorrow, Charlie. Thanks for being here."  
Lonny led the McAvoys out the door.  
Charlie felt relief at their departure. His head had started pounding during the ceremony and now his vision had blurred to the point where he hadn't been able to find the signature line on the marriage license. He reached for his own coat, thrown over a chair, and stumbled, unable to maintain his balance.  
What the fuck?  
Then he collapsed.


	3. Chapter 3

Lonny pressed the phone closer to his ear. “Can’t hear you, man, I’m going to have to step outside.” He gestured to his friend and mimed, “Work, I’ve gotta take this.”  
Once on the sidewalk, away from the roar of the sports bar during Thursday night football, he began again. “This is Lonny Church.”  
“And this is Reese Lansing. I’ve been trying to reach McAvoy all damn day. His cell number keeps going to voice mail and there’s no answer at his landline.”  
“He’s not at his place. He’s at The Four Seasons over on West 57th. You know he got married today, right?”  
“The Four Seasons. Okay, okay.” There was a pause as Lansing seemed to consider something. “Church, you might want to start heading to the Four Seasons.”  
“Hey, I’m off the clock.” He checked his watch. “Anyway, it’ll take me at least 30 minutes to get there. And I’ve had a couple of beers.”  
“Are you drunk?”  
“Not even close.”  
“Then get going. I’m calling him now and he’ll be waiting for you.”

By the time Lonny pulled up to the front of the hotel, both McAvoys were waiting. Will stubbed out his smoke on the sidewalk and opened the door for Mac.  
Lonny said nothing but waited expectantly.  
“Back to the Bronx, Lonny. We’re going to Montefiore Hospital on 150th.”  
Lonny took a minute to program the GPS, then pulled away from the curb. He looked in the rear view mirror.  
Mac saw the unspoken question in his eyes. What could interrupt a wedding night at one of the nicest hotels in the city? “Charlie Skinner suffered a stroke today. At the clerk’s office, evidently right after we left.” She tightened her grasp on Will’s hand.  
Lonny remembered how Charlie had seemed to mumble earlier. “How’s he doin’?”  
Mac looked to Will whose eyes were caged and unreadable. “Don’t know. Reese said it may have been an hour before anyone found him. They’re running the tests now.”  
They drove in silence for the next twenty minutes.  
Leona Lansing was in the waiting room, consulting with a surgical scrub-clad woman when Mac and Will arrived.  
Leona waved them over. “This is Doctor Jessica Rains. She’s the attending neurologist and was just telling us about the tests.”  
“Will McAvoy. How is he?” The first words Will had uttered in an hour.  
Dr.Rains shook his hand. “I recognize you. I watch when I can.” She leaned over to shake Mac’s hand.  
“I’m Mackenzie. Call me Mac.”  
If Will realized he’d forgotten to introduce his new wife, it didn’t register on his face.  
“As I was saying to Mrs. Lansing, and as I’ve already told Mrs. Skinner, we’ve completed the preliminary neurological evaluation. Neither the ultrasound or the angiogram indicated evidence of cerebral hemorrhage. That’s very hopeful; it means no ruptured aneurysm that would be very difficult to repair surgically.”  
“Will surgery be necessary?”  
The doctor shook her head. “Surgery is never a good option for a cerebrovascular accident. We’ll monitor the intracranial pressure and look for changes in the level of consciousness, blood pressure, blood sugar, and oxygenation.”  
“Is he—conscious?”  
“No. He was unconscious when he was brought in, and we sedated him for the angiogram. The sedation will begin to wear off in a few hours and we’ll do another evaluation at that time.” She paused, giving them time to process the information. “Mrs. Skinner is with him now.”  
“Can I see him?” Will asked.  
“I’m sorry, but it’s best if there are no other visitors tonight. Perhaps tomorrow, after we’ve assessed his condition.” She offered an encouraging smile. “”We’ll look after him.”  
Following the doctor’s departure, Leona put her hand on Will’s forearm. “I’m taking Nancy home with me tonight. She needs to be nearer than Connecticut, but I can’t stand the idea of her staying alone in whatever pied a terre Charlie keeps in town.” She rolled her eyes theatrically. “You’re back tomorrow? That’s good. The 23rd and 24th floors will need a pater familias.”  
Reese returned to the room and went immediately to Mac. “Effective immediately, and until further notice, you’re acting director of the news division. I’ll need you with me tomorrow when we do the taping with David Gregory.”  
Mac was taken aback at both pronouncements and Will’s head turned sharply.  
“Where? D.C.?”  
“Yeah. Our jet will leave around noon from LaGuardia. Meet me in the AWM lobby at, say, ten-thirty.”  
The words seemed to be all stopped up on her tongue. “Are you certain—I mean, is this a good idea, having me on the show? You know, I was part of the decision-making process for Genoa—“  
“—As was Charlie.” Reese looked down at her. “I need someone who knows the specific hoops you jumped through to vet this story. That’s you, McHale.”  
“McAvoy.”  
Reese turned. “What?”  
“Her name. It’s McAvoy. We got married today.” It was the first string of consecutive sentences Will had uttered in hours.  
“Congratulations,” Reese returned with a shrug. “Anyway, Church told me.”  
Leona fixed her son with an evil look. “I’m sorry, Will. Mac—McMac. This is not the ideal honeymoon evening for you.”  
Just then, Nancy returned to the waiting room. A petite brunette, she seemed remarkably composed for the circumstances. She saw Will and smiled. “Will, I’m so glad to see you. Mackenzie—“ she reached for Mac’s hand. “Congratulations to you both. Charlie has been so happy for you.”  
“How is he?”  
“He’s sleeping. He looks peaceful. I don’t think he’s in any pain.” She forced a smile. “Like the doctor said, we’ll know more in the morning. Thanks for coming, but there’s no point in staying. This isn’t the place you should be tonight.”  
Will leaned to kiss her cheek. “We had to—“  
Leona took Nancy by the elbow. “You need some sleep yourself. We’ll get you back here early tomorrow morning.” She smiled knowingly at Will and Mac, as she eased Nancy Skinner out the door.  
Reese followed, pointing to his wristwatch. “Tomorrow morning, Mac.”

On the way back to The Four Seasons, Mac watched Will. He was quiet, distant. She knew better than to assume he was merely pensive or sad about Charlie. She knew he was damming up his emotions, feeling like he had to be strong for her—Nancy—Charlie--Leona, even.  
She also suspected his seeming impassivity was masking his anger. He had to be roiling with anger about Dantana and Genoa, about innocent people being dragged through the mud, about the continuing impact of the phony story they had been fed.  
Mac understood that Charlie was the latest victim of Genoa. They had all be deceived by Dantana’s lack of integrity, but Charlie had also been played as a patsy by that ONI guy, someone he imagined was a friend—at the least, a trusted source. He had agonized over green-lighting Genoa from the beginning, and when it turned to worms, he’d had to endure scathing editorials, jabs from far-less scrupled-but-holier-than-thou colleagues, political cheapshots, and the complete ruin of his code of ethics. In short, a fall from grace to abject professional humiliation.  
Charlie’s culpability matched her own. She knew exactly how he felt.  
The same knot of paparazzi milled on the sidewalk outside 2 Hudson, but Lonny again took the Escalade down the ramp to the underground garage.  
“McAvoy, you’re in for the night, understand? I’ve got another commitment but someone will be here for you at 830 tomorrow morning. You hang tight until he gets here.”

The gossip weeklies hit the stands early Friday morning and their snarky trash made its way to Friday morning news shows, as an attempt at lighthearted entry to the weekend. When she turned on the morning news, at 7:00, Mac immediately muted the sound. But she noticed that three minutes at the top of the hour were given to the revelations in the Dantana suit. There was a stock head-and-shoulders shot of Will, followed by several candids of the NewsNight staff under photographic assault outside the AWM building. The final shot was a photograph, emblazoned with TMZ, of her and Will exiting the clerk’s office the day before. She could imagine the SoT, and the comments that would be offered by Tony Hart.  
No mention was accorded Charlie Skinner. It seemed a slight but one for which she was grateful.  
No point in giving Dantana the satisfaction.  
“You’re going to the hospital?” she asked of Will.  
“For a little while. Until Nancy or someone else comes. Someone should be there.”  
“I need to get to the office for a few minutes. Talk to Jim and Don, see what’s on my desk. And—I suppose—see what’s on Charlie’s desk.” She sighed heavily. “I didn’t expect that Reese would do that.”  
Even Reese has astonished.  
“No one better qualified than you.” He kissed her forehead. “But don’t get used to it. Charlie will come roaring back, and I can’t live without you in my ear.”  
“I’ll probably miss you later, going to D.C. and all.”  
He pulled her into his arms. “I’m so sorry. You shouldn’t have to do this. But there’s no one more capable.” He pressed his lips to hers. “And—this is your attorney talking. Be careful on the Gregory show. He’s fair but he’ll ask tough questions. Don’t apologize for anything. And try to keep Reese reined in.”  
“Got it.” She grabbed at her purse and folio. “I’ll see you—“  
“Wait, where are you going? You can’t go out there alone.”  
“Will, we’re going in different directions, so it isn’t practical to go with you.”  
“I’ll have Manny put you in a cab. I won’t let you stand out on the sidewalk with that pack of jackals.”  
“You were the one who thought they only wanted photographs,” she smiled archly.  
“Let’s say that Lonny finally got through to me.” He took her in his arms. “Thanks for yesterday. Thanks for last night. Thanks for—getting to yes. You know.” He tipped her chin up and pressed his lips to hers. “I owe you a honeymoon. In a couple of weeks, when Charlie’s better and things settle down a little more.”  
She blinked and nodded simultaneously, in a gesture of understanding. “I’ll see you tonight, Billy. Update me on what’s going on. My love to Charlie.”

Will was at the hospital before 9am and wasn’t surprised to see Nancy already there.  
“Any word?”  
“Dr. Rains is checking him out now. She said I—we’ll—be able to go back in a few minutes.”  
“Sophie--?”  
“She’s on her way, getting out of classes and exams. Packing her car. Whatever.”  
Dr. Rains entered the room, offering a smile as soon as she recognized them.  
“He’s awake and alert.”  
“Visitors are okay?” Will asked.  
“For short periods. Don’t stay too long and over-tax him.” She looked from face to face. “Our preliminary evaluation indicates that he had a very mild stroke, with little lingering effects. This is perhaps a little miraculous considering the period of time before he was discovered and transported to the hospital. He’s complaining of weakness on his right side, numbness in his right extremities. I’m not sure, yet, about his vision. You may notice a slight slurring or hesitation in his speech; the deficit in his vocabulary will probably come back with time, but he might need some speech rehabilitation. We’ll be talking to you about rehabilitative therapies in the days to come.” She consulted her clipboard once more then looked up, brightening. “Well, I’m sure he will welcome the company. Try to be upbeat and don’t stay too long. Oh, and there might be an occasional emotional response. It’s pretty common with stroke patients. Don’t worry, that will probably moderate with time.”  
Will insisted Nancy have a fifteen minute head-start on visiting hours, so he went for a cup of coffee and took his time. When he finally ambled back, Nancy smiled and patted his hand. “He’s in fine form. I’m going to step out for a little while and make a call.”

“Sobriety becomes you,” Will said, entering the dimly lit hospital room.  
“S’over-rated,” Charlie struggled to return. “My own, ‘specially.”  
“Charlie—“  
“Don’t say it.”  
“What?—“  
You’re going to ask me how I feel, then you’re going to tell me you’re sorry.”  
“Yeah.” Will was noticing the slight slurring of words the doctor had warned them about.  
“I feel like shit. And there’s no reason for you to be sorry.”  
“I’m sorry we ever heard of Operation Genoa. I’m sorry I didn’t exercise my veto and—“  
“Knock it off, Will. Quit being a pussy.” Charlie sighed and closed his eyes. “How’s Mac?”  
“She’s had a crazy 24 hours and she’s worried as hell about you. You know that Reese took her with him today to D.C.”  
“That’s probably a good call. She’ll give us professional credibility, if Reese can keep her from mea- culpa-ing her way through the Gregory interview.” He looked up at Will. “You’re going in today?”  
Will nodded.  
“Good. Rally the troops.”  
“We’ll save you a bourbon from the party tonight.”  
“You’d better save me more than one.” His eyes closed again and Will felt that he should go.  
“Charlie, I’d better run. The doctor didn’t want me to stay long, and Nancy’ll be back in a few minutes. Let these people take care of you. I’ll check back later.”  
“Will—“  
“Yeah?”  
Charlie motioned him closer. “You never know how these things are going to go—“  
Will wanted to ask, what things, as he leaned nearer.  
“—so I wanted to mention—“ His voice dropped to a soft whisper.  
Will just stood there with his mouth working and nothing coming out.

Mac was used to seeing a panel show, so she was somewhat taken aback to see how tall David Gregory stood when not in his chair. They had never met before but he seemed friendly and anxious to quell any nervousness on her part.  
Reese, of course, needed no quelling.  
“Look, David, you know we’re constrained by how we can discuss this. There’s no gag order or anything, but our lawyers obviously don’t want us to give away the case. So we aren’t going to talk about any of the personal allegations in the lawsuit.”  
“Understand.” Gregory nodded. “I just want to talk in generalities about the process by which you vetted this story, if, as you claim, it was largely the fault of a junior producer who knowingly altered raw interview footage.”  
“I’m not sure we can even go that far,” Mackenzie worried.  
“Well, General Stomtonovich has filed his own suit, so we stick to his allegations and try not to assign any other motives,” Reese said.  
Gregory consulted the yellow legal tablet he held and eyed Reese. “Your counsel knows you’re here, so I have to assume you’ve been given specific instructions as to the sorts of comments you can offer. But you need to know before we even start that this is not going to be 15 exculpatory minutes for ACN. I’m not giving you a free pass. Some hard questions are going to have to be entertained.”  
“We’re ready,” Reese’s mouth twisted. “C’mon, Mac. We can do this.”

At the eleven o’clock meeting, Will kept his hands in his pockets and announced that Charlie was in good spirits, that Mac would be back later (albeit in a different capacity), and that for the time being, Jim would remain as acting EP of the show. Then he added, “I want to clear the air about the rumor that I fired Mac on election night.”  
All the faces looked up, some registering surprise (they hadn’t heard) and some wary, wondering what justification would be offered. Maggie looked away, unable to meet either Jim’s cool gaze or Will’s evident discomfort at the other end of the table.  
“Someone heard me fire Mackenzie on election night. It’s true. I lost my temper and did something willfully and monumentally stupid. But I reversed myself and re-hired her. And I want you to know, if you don’t already, that yesterday morning I signed her to an exclusive personal contract with absolutely no possibility of termination.” No one seemed to get it so he held up his left hand, the platinum band on the ring finger.  
The staff erupted in cheers and high fives. Will felt several claps to his back. Jim walked over to offer his hand. “Well, this was a long road, but I know she must be happy.”  
“You know—I think she is,” Will returned with a smile of rare genuineness. “So, now we need to get on with this meeting or she’ll kick my ass.”  
Later, after the pitches had been dispatched and a tentative rundown established, Will suddenly said, “Jim, I want a story about why the Navy is building an electronic data collection facility in the middle of the Utah desert—“  
“Uh, sure. We’ll get right on it, Will.” He exchanged a nervous glance at Neal.  
“I want it in A or B block Monday night.”  
“A block, Will? Monday? Are you sure?” Jim still felt tentative enough in his role as acting EP that he felt compelled to be diplomatic. “You know that no one at DoD wants to talk to us right now. Is there any… urgency… to this story?”  
“Sure there is. An official at the Office of Naval Intelligence made it his business to leak false and misleading information to us… so I want to know precisely what his motives were.”  
“Will, we’re not going to get into any kind of ethical dilemma here, are we? I mean, about compromising sources—“  
“I’d say he’s done all the compromising so far, but we’ll scrutinize it before any names are mentioned,” Will replied.  
“In the interim, can you give me the guy’s name? It might make things easier in tracing—”  
“Pressman. Goes by Shep, but I’m not sure what that may be short for.”  
Neal’s head bobbed. “We used to have a guy here with the same last name—“  
“I know,” Will said. “And right after this meeting, I want you to come to my office and talk to me about that.”

Mac returned before show time, but only just. She came into control and Jim handed her a second headset.  
“I’m back, Will, but Jim’s still got the show.”  
He looked directly into the camera. “How’d it go?”  
“I think I prefer this side of the camera,” she laughed. “It was nerve-wracking, trying to tell the truth without legally tipping our hand.”  
“Reese?”  
“You know, I think he rather enjoyed himself. He appeared to have been well-briefed by Rebecca. I just filled in a few details, our normal protcols, that sort of thing.”  
“Rolling in five,” Herb announced, and the NewsNight music was cued.  
“See you in an hour, Mac.” He gave his papers a final tap. “Okay, Jim, let’s go.”

After the show, staff members began to arrive in the executive dining room. Leona had engaged Wayne to sit at the piano, affording a more elegant ambiance than Hang Chew’s. Light hors d’oeuvres and snacks were available, and the tended bar was a welcome feature for staffers fatigued from an exceptionally grueling week.  
Election night—the revelations of Dantana’s petition—the unfamiliar and unwelcome notoriety of tabloids—shoving and shouting from photographers and hecklers on the sidewalk outside the AWM building—Charlie Skinner, felled and missing.  
The mood was subdued, but drinks helped. It was all about the camaraderie anyway.  
Will nursed a scotch and looked on with wry amusement as Jim, Gary, Neal, and the control room staff fussed over Mac.  
Wendy reunited with her lost boys.  
He felt a sharp jab to his shoulder. “Hey!”  
Sloan glowered in front of him. “Anything you want to tell me, Will?”  
“Sloan, things happened very quickly—“  
“I can goddam tell.” Suddenly, her eyes widened and she reached for his hand. “Let me see,” she said, inspecting the wedding band.  
“Does this mean I’m forgiven?”  
“Not on your life. But the good news is I’ve forgiven Mac.”  
“Hmmm, well, that is good news. I guess.”  
She gave him another punch. “Hey, bro’, next time I’d damned well be at the top of the invite list. If you get married again. Er—if you—you know—“  
He smirked at her over the top of his drink. “Go on. I’m really enjoying this.”  
“You know what I mean,” she warned.  
Mac came over with two Cosmos, passing one to Sloan. Will slipped his arm around her.  
“You see, she knows how to make amends.” Sloan sipped. “Did you see we made the cover of People? Just the bottom right corner, where they usually put dead celebrities of little consequence, but still.”  
Mac sighed. “I saw Tony Hart this morning, then caught the Hoda and Kathy Lee show in the limo on the way to the airport. I’m hoping for a casualty-less calamity to take us off the front page.”  
“We need to get to the rage phase.”  
“What’s that?” Mac asked.  
“Oh, something Don and I talked about once. After the humiliation comes the anger.” Changing the subject, she offered, “I went to see Charlie. He seemed good. My aunt had a stroke and it really messed her up. But Charlie seems like he’s coming back fine.”  
“Nancy?”  
“I didn’t see her. Their daughter had arrived and they went out to grab a bite. Mrs. Lansing was there, though.”  
Don and Elliot joined the party after their show ended. There was some good-natured teasing about the speed and secrecy of the marriage, during which Sloan managed another scowl at Will.  
Once the staff got some food (not tuna jerky) and a few drinks in them, they began to shed their fatigue and the awkwardness that had afflicted them since the whirlwind return of Will and Mac. Jim took Mac aside and briefed her about the mutiny in the control room. After two Cosmos, Sloan very much appeared to be flirting with Don, and Neal was leading a loud defense of Julian Assange against Gary’s sarcastic assessment. Charlie’s absence weighed on Will, but, over his third drink, he began to think things might eventually be righted after all.

Charlie Skinner had another stroke early Saturday morning and died without regaining consciousness.

I guess it's just us now.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

 

Entering the 40th floor on Monday morning, Mac was surprised to see Millie at her desk outside Charlie’s office.

“I wanted to make sure you had what you needed this morning.” Millie offered a tremulous smile. “I worked for that cantankerous old man for fifteen years. He wouldn’t forgive me if I left you in the lurch. Anyway, I’ll stay until noon, and I probably won’t be any good to you after that. It’s going to begin to hit home, you know?”

Mac nodded. She did know.

They went into Charlie’s office.

“There are some calls you’re going to want to return; I put them on Outlook. Jim Walton from CNN. The current guy at CBS News, whatever his name is, they change so quickly. And Roger Ailes from Fox.” Millie arched her eyebrow. “I don’t have to tell you what Charlie would have said about that one.” She flipped a page in her pad. “Union contract negotiations Wednesday morning and you’ll have to be a part of that, along with HR. I left some background material on his— _your_ desk. Reese Lansing wants to see you at 1130, his office. And there are some decisions that need to be made about ACN’s involvement in the service on Thursday.” She stopped. “Are you okay, Ms. McHale? You look a little overwhelmed.”

“I am.” Mac inhaled deeply. Her eyes darted at the desk, at the TV monitors on the far wall, at the memorabilia of a life in journalism cluttering the room, a brass spyglass at the window, framed family photographs on the credenza, and a shadowbox of medals and a combat infantryman’s badge on the wall behind the door. “And it’s Mac,” she smiled bravely. “Thanks for everything, Millie. I’ll try to ask questions before you leave. If you would, call the newsroom and ask Jim Harper to have one of the interns come up and staff your desk this afternoon.”

Millie nodded and backed out.

Mac dropped her bag and went around to the desk. Overwhelmed indeed. Perhaps not since Genesis had so much happened in a six day period.

A lazy Saturday afternoon interrupted by shocking news. A hasty trip to Connecticut that evening to offer condolences and support to Nancy and Sophie. Will had been composed if distant on the drive back, but once home, his composure cracked. Whatever protective emotional wall he had built crumbled and Mac held him through alternating hours of agonized silences and recriminations, until, exhausted, he fell asleep in her arms.

And there was her own anguish as well, the depths of which she was still plumbing. She remembered Charlie twice chancing her: the first when she was still largely untested, and once again when she was in desperate need of redemption. The tale of two Mackenzies. In a very Dickensian way, Charlie had recalled her to life.

She remembered another crucial encounter. How Charlie’s had been the voice in her ear when she was in a stiff bed in a military treatment facility in Germany. The frantic phone call to ascertain her real condition ( _so much can be misrepresented and gotten wrong, even amongst journalists_ ) and reassure her—perhaps both of them—that things would get better. At the time, she hadn’t been able to tell what was wrong with his voice. He may have been sloshed; he often was. She may have been drugged; she had no control and little knowledge of what was being administered to her.

He may have been crying.

When she returned to ACN, neither of them had mentioned that phone call.

Grief, raw and choking, rose in her and her eyes burned with tears she’d been struggling all weekend to contain. Sighing, she put her head in her arms down on the desk, _on Charlie’s desk_ , and released the tears.

 

oooo

 

Leona was on the phone when Will entered her office. “He’s here now. Right.” She replaced the phone on her desk and gestured for him to take a chair. “Rebecca’s on her way.” Then, after a pause, “Did you know the heart has four chambers?”

He lifted an eyebrow and waited for her to continue.

“I’ve only been able to account for three of mine since meeting him, you know.   He just… _occupied_ important places in my life. Forty-five years. God, I’m going to miss having him around.” For a moment, her imperious manner slipped and Will witnessed Leona unmasked, anguished and disarmingly human. She wrung her hands and turned her head toward the window, a gesture he recognized as a diversionary tactic. He rose and went toward her, but stopped inches short.

Will and Leona did not have the relationship of equals, and it seemed presumptuous, invasive even, for him to initiate a reassuring touch. This was Leona Lansing. ( _“You know who I am.”)_ Media tycoon, business barracuda, unflinching and opinionated. Formidable on every count.

“We all will.”

Turning, she relented and permitted a brief hug, momentarily easing the barrier between them. “Yes. Well.” She exhaled and pulled away. “It’s just that I depended on him being here. Doing this alone will take some getting used to.” She moved back behind her desk, barriers up once more.

“We’re clearing the F block,” Will began. “Two minutes...”

Leona snorted. “The conceit of this business, that a heartfelt tribute is all of two minutes.” She put up a hand to stop Will from responding. “I know. He’ll be lucky to get a mention on any other news show, and the only place his name will appear in the paper is on the obit page.” She sighed. “Do you think the Wall Street Journal will run an editorial that calls Charlie’s death expiation for our coverage of Genoa?”

“We don’t sacrifice lives for civil suits, Lee.” Rebecca strode in, depositing her purse on a chair. She took a chair at the table and opened her folio. She motioned for the other two to join her and fixed Will particularly with a stare. “Tell me. What’s so important that I had to come here personally to add to our response to Dantana’s petition?”

“Because we need to get something on record.”

She spread her hands, encouraging him to go on.

Will shifted in the leather chair and leaned across the table.  “I want the real villain of this piece, not the cartoon villain. Dantana was just the unwitting facilitator of Genoa. He has much to answer for, but he wasn’t the instigator. This was orchestrated at another level, by an unseen Machiavelli, for another purpose. We were given a lie by a trusted source, then given phony evidence to substantiate the lie.”

“I’m intrigued,” she nodded.   “However, Mr. Dantana is the one who has filed suit and against whom we must defend ourselves. Well, defend _you_.” She picked up her pen. “But tell me what you think needs to be included in order to bust this case wide open.”

“David Pressman. Young kid, an intern at News Night a couple of years ago. We let him go after three months when he began leaking newsroom information on social media.”

“And you think he masterminded Genoa for a comeuppance?” Rebecca’s pen paused.

“No. David Pressman is dead. He killed himself shortly after we let him go.”

Leona inhaled sharply, still without comment, and exchanged a glance with Rebecca before turning back to Will.

“So, if not the former intern—“

“His father,” Will said flatly. “Pressman Senior was the source who confirmed Genoa to Charlie. He was the one who urged me to stand by the story when it began to disintegrate.” He shook his head. “I don’t have all the whys-and-wherefores yet, but he is somehow connected to something else, something bigger.”

“Bigger than Operation Genoa?”

Will rubbed his chin, seemingly a nervous tic. “Unlike what we thought at first, Genoa wasn’t institutional failure. It was a cascading error, set in motion by a calculated calumny. A cascading error is a failure in a system of interconnected parts wherein the failure of a single, perhaps small, part triggers the failure of successive parts. The individual parts have integrity but they are pressed beyond operational parameters.”

“Quite a mouthful,” Rebecca said admiringly. “You must have been the most articulate prosecutor in the D.A.’s office.”

He gave her a sour look.

Leona cleared her throat. “I don’t have to tell either of you that there’s something morally repugnant about dragging the suicide of a screwed up kid into our defense strategy.”

“However repugnant, Pressman was the one who made his kid a factor. He told Charlie as much,” Will said, looking to Rebecca for confirmation. She nodded. “Anyway,” he continued, “the only thing to include is just the part about the kid having worked here and been fired. I’m not sure it makes a difference if we say he killed himself. But Pressman made this personal and I want to take it back to him.”

Leona gave a bitter laugh. “And we’re going to put this implied connection between Pressman’s son and Operation Genoa in our response to Dantana’s suit? Isn’t this what you lawyers call hearsay evidence?”

“Civil suit, different rules of evidence,” Rebecca said shortly. “But I’m more concerned about the end game here, Will. Is this a vendetta?”

“No. But there’s going to be justice.”

Rebecca capped her Mont Blanc pen. “I don’t have to tell you that the aim of defending ACN against this suit has to do with money. I want to look at this, think about it, discuss it with Leona. If I determine it doesn’t conflict with our primary objective—well, we’ll mention the kid in the response. We’ve got another week before we have to file.” She zipped her folio and rose to leave. “Let me talk to my staff and I’ll give you a call later, Lee.” Nodding at Will, she left.

Will rose and started for the door himself, but turned. “Service is Thursday morning. Will Reese want to be a pall bearer?”

“Ask him,” she said, a pained look returning to her face. “No, I will. I have to talk to him soon anyway.” She sighed heavily. “We’ll let you know tomorrow.”

Will ducked his head in acknowledgement.

After he left, Leona pressed a button on a remote and the sound of the Allman Brothers filled her office.

_Nobody left to run with anymore, nobody left to do the things, the things we used to do before…_

 

oooo

 

Will skipped the pitch meeting but buzzed for Jim after it had concluded.

“Hey, I caught the David Gregory show yesterday morning. I thought Mac did well.” Having opened with the most positive thing he could think of, Jim’s expression slid into one of doubt. “Will, I’ve gotta ask—are you going to be able to do this tonight?”

Will tapped the digital clock on his iPad. “Mac’s going to join us in about fifteen minutes. The three of us are going to go through the rundown. But before she gets here, you and I are going to review a few things.”

“Sure.”

“First, talk to me about this West guy. He was the one with the original tip to Dantana.”

“Cyrus West was a problem waiting to happen. He was—um, _ambitious_ is the word I’ve been using, but perhaps that’s too ambiguous. He had a personal agenda, he wanted to be noticed.” Jim laughed. “If I’d been here, we wouldn’t have even used him for a military man on the street interview.”

“He’s that unreliable?”

“No, he’s that insignificant. West wasn’t even a field grade officer, he was company grade. And that means he never had the kind of big-picture experience to offer relevant commentary. On anything. No service college, no joint forces command, not even defense attaché experience. I mean, Mike Tapley is a retired Navy captain, but that’s the equivalent of a bird colonel in the other services. Cyrus West was an air force captain, barely three years senior to the average West Point cadet. It should have been an embarrassment to have him to offer any military analysis.”

“Why didn’t Mac catch that?”

Jim shrugged. “The D.C. bureau has a bit of an inferiority complex. I think Mac wanted to let Jerry have enough room and the ability to develop his own sources, so she gave him autonomy. Probably more autonomy than he should’ve had. Probably expecting that he’d police himself.”

“Are you saying she got sloppy?”

“Actually, I’m trying very hard not to say that.”

“Okay, one more thing,” Will said. “I need you to go back a year ago to when you were vetting Solomon Hancock—“

“Hancock?” Jim frowned. “You mean that guy that came to Charlie with some info about NSA intelligence gathering?”

“Yeah. I guess my question is how you got the biographical info on him.”

“Some from OPM, the Office of Personnel Management. Then I talked to the HR wonk at NSA.”

“You were just handed a psych eval? No HIPAA constraints? No Privacy Act consideration?” Will shook his head. "And what about the downgrade to his clearance, wouldn’t that have been considered a punitive action—“

“I see where you’re going. If Hancock’s clearance had been downgraded for any reason other than a change to the scope of his job, it would be considered an adverse personnel action. He’d have been notified and have the right to reclama. There’s a whole administrative process.” Jim considered for a moment. “I was fed information to discredit Hancock as a source.”

“We’ve been asleep at the wheel, Jim. All of us.”

“Is this why you wanted the info on the Utah data storage facility? I haven’t had much time to work on that so far, certainly not enough to carry a block tonight.”

“That’s okay. We’ll take it on later this week. But put a couple of folks on it. Thorough folks.”

Tamara rapped lightly on the door and leaned into the room. “Someone just delivered something for Mac—“ She carried an ostentatious vase of gold and pink flowers into the office. “Can I leave them here or should I send them upstairs?”

The men exchanged a glance.

“You can leave them here,” Will replied, affecting nonchalance. As soon as Tamara departed, he reached for the card and smiled. “Welcome to the ivory tower, Mac.”

As if on cue, Mackenzie appeared, tossing her pad on the table, startling Jim. “I hope you two have worked most of this out. I’ve had a bitch of a morning. Reese has made all kinds of commitments without talking to me and without even seeming to think about the implications, and—“  She noticed the flowers and looked to Will. “What?—“

He couldn’t keep the amusement off his face. “For you. Congratulations on your promotion from a fan.” He slid the card to her.

She looked at it and rolled her eyes. “Jane Barrow!”

Jim snickered. “Trying to bury the hatchet?”

“Trying to lick the boots, more like” Mac replied dryly. “Anyway, I’m yours until 1:00, when I have to be on a conference call.” She dropped into a chair, one hand snaking out to squeeze Will’s. “What have we got?”

Jim reviewed the rundown for the night, registering Mac’s nods as approval. He got to the F block and paused. “Um… Will’s going to read something about Charlie. There’s some archival footage Maggie’s been putting together—reporting from Saigon, from Johnson Space Center during the first shuttle mission, from the sidewalk outside the Washington Hilton after Hinckley’s attempt on Reagan, and from L.A. during the South Central riots in 1992. We’re allowing two minutes.”

Mac looked at Will. “That’s long for something like this. Can you carry it? We can get Elliot to narrate it as a package and you can just bookend it—”

“I’ve got it,” he said.

She smiled and nodded. “Okay.”

Citing things to do, Jim took his leave.

“How are you doing?” she asked, eyes crinkling in fond concern.

“I’m good. You?”

She sighed. “An exasperating meeting with Reese. He wants to start interviews for Charlie’s position in two weeks. He asked me to sit in on the interviews.”

“What did you say?”

“Absolutely not. It’s wildly inappropriate for me to help panel someone who could conceivably be my boss.”

“Is your name on his interview list?”

She made a dismissive sound. “I doubt it. This is Reese, remember? Anyway, I have no aspirations in that direction. I’m just sitting in for a little bit.” She paused. “Reese was really worried about whether you would do the show tonight.”

“I’m okay,” he reassured her. “Got time for lunch? One of the interns made a run for sandwiches and should be back any minute.“

“Sounds wonderful. Just please have it delivered before I have to be somewhere. You saw Leona this morning? How’s she doing?”

“Hurt. “ The word seemed at once accurate and inadequate.

“And you spoke to Rebecca? What did she—?”

He held up a hand. “It’s why I didn’t want you there. I didn’t want you to be disappointed in me. One of us has to maintain some integrity.”

 

oooo

 

Mac slipped into Control at 8:45 and Jim passed her an extra headset. After Herb counted them down to break, Jim cleared his throat. “Good show, everyone. But we need you to clear the room.”

Kendra, Herb, and Jake exchanged surprised glances before standing and exiting. “Back in 30,” Herb reminded, on his way out.

Joey had risen but stood in front of his control board with open palms and a confused look.

“I’ve got this,” Jim said, seating himself at the graphics panel. “Thanks, Joey.”

After Joey left, Mac keyed her mic. “Will, Control is clear.”

Will seemed to be looking directly at her through the monitors. “Copy that.” A corner of his mouth hitched up into a slight smile. “Good to have you back in my ear, Mac.”

Jim counted down and switched the board.

“Lastly, Atlantis Cable News is tonight mourning the loss of the president of the news division, Charles Alphonse Skinner, who died suddenly last weekend. Charlie, as he was known to everyone both at this network and throughout television news, was the embodiment of professional integrity and diligence in a business that has become increasingly partisan, superficial, and commercially-driven. A native of Newport, Rhode Island, Charlie was drafted and left the University of Rhode Island before finishing his degree. He served as infantryman during two combat tours in Vietnam and was decorated for his actions under fire. Later returning to Vietnam as a reporter for United Press International, he reported from helicopters and rice paddies, and most famously covered the fall of Saigon in 1975. His reporting from Cambodia in 1979-80 helped expose the mass genocide perpetrated by the Khmer Rouge. Upon his return to the States, he bounced between several newspaper and broadcast television news bureaus, helping cover the 1976 presidential election for ABC News, the 1980 Republican National Convention for UPI, and coordinating coverage of the fledgling space shuttle missions from Houston for CBS News. He was recognized by the Radio and Television News Association in 1995 with its Edward R. Murrow Award, and the following year, he was brought to Atlantis World Media and charged with the creation of an upstart cable news network, ACN.

“Charlie Skinner was a husband and a father; he was a hero, and an intrepid newsman. He was the natural heir to Murrow, Fred Friendly, and Don Hewitt. He was the _eminence grise_ of cable news and an elder statesman in a profession that sometimes seems to have fallen upon rocky times. There isn’t a person at ACN who does not regard him as a mentor and a friend. To me personally—“

The feed switched from the tape package back to Will and Mac thought she heard hesitation in his voice.

“Hold it together, Will,” she said softly. “You can do this…”

“—Charlie Skinner is the reason I am here tonight, and why I will be here tomorrow night and the night after that. Literally, he put me in this chair a dozen years ago and he continually challenged me to stay here and to make it count for something. Charlie Skinner’s legacy is a commitment to high standards and a passion for the news. We at News Night and at Atlantis Cable News intend to carry on as Charlie would have wanted, in the manner that he first modeled for us.”


	5. Chapter 5

On Wednesday morning, Jim walked into Will’s office with a sheaf of papers.

“Got time for a preliminary report?”

Will gestured to the table and joined him there.

“This is still very rough,” he warned. “We’re really just getting started.”

“Who do you have on it?”

“So far, just Gary, but I’m going to put someone else with him.” Jim opened a folder. “Okay. To begin with, the facility out in the Utah desert is NSA, not Navy. The formal name is the Intelligence Community Comprehensive National Cybersecurity Initiative Data Center,Bluffdale, Utah.” He rolled his eyes. “They really need to come up with a sweet federal acronym for that. Anyway, it’s been designed to store electronic signal intercepts. How _much_ storage depends upon your source: some say _yottabytes_ , some say _exabytes_ , but we’ll take the worst case scenario, which alleges storage for up to five _zettabytes_ of information. Now, one zettabyte is the equivalent of _one_[ _sextillion_](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sextillion) _bytes_ of information. If you remember your exponential notation, that’s 10 21. And _five_ of those zettabytes are enough to contain all the communications in the world for the last one hundred years.”

Will’s chin dipped in astonishment.

“Costs a lot, too,” Jim continued. “About $2 billion to build and another $2 billion for hardware, software, and maintenance. Actually, maintenance is going to be its own fiscal sink hole, since the facility is expected to require over 60 megawatts of electricity each year, running nearly $40 million. _Every year_. Probably mostly going to air conditioning, you know, what with nesting all those computers in a fricking desert. I didn’t pull any stats for staffing but will if you need it.”

He closed that folder and from another extracted several sheets of yellow legal paper, covered in notes. “Gilbert Sheppard Pressman, career spook. He’s nominally at the Office of Naval Intelligence now, where his title is Media Liaison.”

“Why do you say nominally?”

“I think it’s _dis_ -information.” Jim offered a satisfied half smile. “Pressman really has no background in PR. No previous experience with the media in any form, in fact. He’s only been with ONI for a little over a year. Prior to this, he was with DIA—the Defense Intelligence Agency—and before that, NSA. Career track at NSA, actually, specializing in _sigint_ , or signals intelligence.” He went back a page in his notes. “And I should note that one of DIA’s functions is to conduct security investigations for federal employees and defense contractors. Essentially, all security clearances eventually funnel through DIA.”

“So if Solomon Hancock’s clearance was downgraded without his knowledge—“

“Yeah, DIA’s fingerprints would probably be on it. Maybe Pressman called in a favor from some old pals?

“Oh, and here’s something interesting: Solomon Hancock served in the Navy from 1971-75, assigned to the USS Belmont, what the Navy then called a technical research ship. It was really a spy ship, configured to eavesdrop on the Soviets, and similar to the one the North Koreans commandeered in 1968. Hancock was an enlisted cryptographer. Pressman was a naval intelligence officer from 1969-75, two years of which were spent onboard—“

“The Belmont?” Will completed.

“Yeah. That couldn’t be a coincidence, could it?” Jim rolled a pen between his fingers. “I don’t know what you have in mind here, Will. I guess we could rail about the costs, or the secrecy, or use it as a springboard to the Patriot Act in general. But as your EP, youractingEP, I don’t see how we can lead with this.”

Will laced his fingers behind his neck and considered. “Okay, here’s how we’ll handle this. We’ll make a shot across the bow, to use Navy parlance. Tonight, B block, let’s go with the Bluffdale story. Just the facts, but angle it to the economics of the situation. How much it costs, et cetera. We’ll get into the politics and Patriot Act exigencies later, but right now I want to chum the waters enough to interest the Tea Partiers. Let’s get them spooled up about how much big government is spending. We’ll drag in the Libertarians later.”

Jim gathered his papers and went to the door, then, turning, asked, “Um, Will? We’re not going rogue here, are we? I mean, Genoa is still out there and we don’t need another—“

“We’re going to be on solid ground for everything we report with this. But Jim,” Will added, “thanks for being a good EP.”

 

oooo

 Reese sauntered into Mac’s office unannounced, although she could see the intern subbing at Millie’s desk with hands raised, and mouthing _Sorry_ through the glass.

 He dropped into a chair and immediately flung a leg over one arm of it. “Just got off the phone with Rebecca Halliday. The Department of Justice served a warrant to seize Dantana’s computers, here and in D.C.”

 “We expected that. Actually, they’re rather tardy about doing so, aren’t they?”

 “ _Tardy_. That’s a word I haven’t heard since grade school. This vocabulary is going to take some getting used to.” He smirked. “But, you’re right, we did expect it. And that’s why I had our IT department perform what they call ‘digital forensics’ first.”

“You aren’t trying to hide—“ she started.

“Fuck no. I meant that I wanted our guys to find out what might be there, too. ACN is the employer and I had a right to do this. I checked with Rebecca first,” he added, _sotto voce_. “Privacy issues went away when he ceased to be our employee. We have every right to examine any file that may have been stored to our equipment.”

Mac relaxed some. “What are you looking for?”

“Not sure. But there’s a long list of IP addresses that the IT geeks are checking out.” He shrugged. “Just wanted to let you know.” He stood. “And, oh, by the way, I’ve scheduled interviews for Charlie’s position next week. Four candidates. Are you sure you won’t sit on the interview panel? With your experience, you’d bring a lot of insight and credibility.”

“No,” she said firmly, shaking her head. “Whoever sits in this office will be my boss. It isn’t appropriate for me to be a part of those discussions before he gets here.”

“Now, _McMac_. No sexism here. Who said it had to be a ‘ _he_ ’?” Reese tossed back rhetorically, breezily swinging out the door.

 

 oooo

               

 After the show that night, Will returned to his office digging at the knot in his tie.

 “Pretty good tonight.” Mac was smiling the smile that always got him, the one that involved crinkled eyes and a slightly tilted head. And a look of adorable bemusement.

 “Thanks—“

 “Here let me,” as she reached to loosen the silk. “There.” Now patting his chest. Slipping her arms around his neck, to cross her wrists behind his head and bring her lips to his.

 “Very nice,” he murmured. “But it doesn’t get you off the hook. Say it.”

 “I did this morning. You may have been sleeping.”

_"Say it.”_

  “I love you.” Pause. “But I _did_ say it this morning.”

  He answered her smile.   “Double confirmation, then.” Tossing the tie on the desk, he ducked into the bathroom to change, leaving the door slightly ajar so he could hear her.    

  “Tomorrow might be a bit of an ordeal. Are you up to it?” she asked. It was easier to do this without him in the room with her.

  “I’m fine,” he answered. “Everything will be fine.”

  “Would it be a good idea to see Dr. Habib--?”

  “That isn’t necessary. I’m fine.”

  She recognized the tone of voice and decided not to press the matter.

  “Oh, I talked to the insurance people and Blue North Security today. They’re adding a man.”

  “Adding? As in, not replacing? Or better yet, canceling entirely?” He poked his head through the crack in the door, fingers working the buttons on his shirt. “I thought the press interest would have peaked by now—“

  “Not that quickly. Leona wants a man on you for the rest of the month, at least.”

  “Great,” he muttered sarcastically. “So who’s the new guy?”

  “Lonny introduced me today. Cesare Maldonado. Another former military guy.” She sat in Will’s chair. “Will, I don’t know whether I should be proud of this or not, but I asked my father for a diplomatic entrée—“

  “Will—“ Jim leaned into the office. “Hi, Mac. Sorry, didn’t mean to interrupt—”

  “He’s changing, be out in a second. Good show tonight, Jim.”

  He nodded thanks. “How’re things going upstairs? Miss us yet?”

  “I spent all afternoon in negotiations with NABET,” she said, referring to the National Association of Broadcast Employees and Technicians. “Trust me, I’d really rather have been here in Control, where I might feel like I had some. Control, that is.”

  Will came out in jeans and a tee shirt, pulling a sweater over his head, and Jim turned his attention back to Will. “Gary’s okay with it. Are you going to talk to Sloan or should I?”

  “I’ll take care of it,” Will waved.

  “Okay. See you tomorrow then."

              

oooo

 

 Dinner was light, an accommodation to the late hour at which they ordinarily found themselves eating during the week. This night it was a salad and salmon filet. But in an effort to replace some of the weight MacKenzie had lost as a result of the stress retracting Operation Genoa, Will had begun insisting on a dessert most nights. And this night, he couldn’t help but be incredibly pleased that she had finished hers without much coaxing..

“I’ll be enormous if I keep this up,” she mock complained.

“Dessert every night this week. It’s prescriptive. Doctor’s orders.”

“Doctor Will?” She huffed a short laugh and helped him stack the last of the dishes in the dishwasher.   “What did Jim mean earlier about you talking to Sloan?”

“Story. I need to send a crew to D.C. and I want Sloan to do the on-air honors.” He divided the remaining pinot noir between their two glasses.

“What’s the story?”

He nudged her to the living room sofa. “C’mon. Drink up and we’ll go to bed early.”

"Something on your mind?”

 A lopsided grin. “Maybe...”

 “So what’s the story,” she asked again, digging in like a spaniel with a slipper.

 He tossed off his wine. “Jim and I are looking at the electronic surveillance and data collection under the Patriot Act—“

 Suddenly, the cylinders dropped into place. “That’s why you had four minutes tonight on that NSA outpost in the Utah desert.”

 “That’s just prologue. I’ve only begun to pull the thread.”

 “Wait. Will. What exactly do you have in mind?” She turned to look him in the eye.

 He took her glass from her hands and reached to pull her up. “Right now, a biological imperative.” He shrugged. “Since you wanted to know—“

 “I’m being finessed—“

 “Goddam, MacKenzie,” he said, nuzzling her neck, “you’re being _co-opted_.”

 oooo

 

There was a graveside service for Charlie Skinner on Thursday afternoon.

Under a brilliant, cloudless sky, six pallbearers settled their burden and returned to their places in the solemn rank of ACN employees. A service was read, highlighting words like _service_ — _faith_ \-- _commitment_. Concluding the service, two Marines, resplendent in dress blues with blood stripe, reverently folded the flag and presented it to the Marine officer, who saluted in turn, executed a facing movement, and knelt before Nancy Skinner, offering it between white gloved hands.

Neither of the McAvoys witnessed this honor extended by a grateful nation. MacKenzie was looking down at the ground, overwhelmed by the reenactment of a ceremony she’d seen many times, the motions so familiar and the necessity for them so repugnant. Will’s eyes were focused in the distance, where a figure stood alongside a nondescript sedan.

He leaned to her. “I’ll meet you at the car. I need to speak to that man.”

She looked to where he had indicated. “Is everything all right?”

“Everything’s fine,” he murmured, disengaging himself and striding across the field of granite markers and headstones.

The man, arms crossed upon his chest, leaned against the front panel of the car and watched Will’s approach.

“Will McAvoy. You look just like you do on television. Isn’t high definition wonderful?”

“Pressman. It _is_ Pressman, isn’t it?” Will removed his sunglasses and squinted at the other man.

“Good weather for Charlie’s send off. It rained torrents for David’s.”

“What do you want here?” Will fought to keep his voice level.

Pressman smiled thinly. “What anyone wants from an interment. _Closure_.”

Will grabbed Pressman’s coat and pressed him against the car. “You miserable goddam—“

Hands were pulling Will off and he heard Lonny’s voice. “Not the time, not the place.”

Pressman straightened his coat and shot his sleeves. He looked at Will with equanimity, then reached in a pocket to fish out his keys. “Goodbye, McAvoy.”

As Pressman drove away, Will twisted from Lonny’s grasp.

“Sorry, but there are people watching—“

“Understood,” Will said tersely.

 

oooo

 

Officially, there was no wake, but ACN co-workers still gathered at Hang Chew’s after the service. The D.C. bureau, _in toto_ , was filling in for New York this night.

Elliot, his jacket off and tie loosened, was still plinking on his cell phone when Don returned with fresh drinks.

“Did you see Will?”

“Just now?” He looked around the room. “He’s over there,” gesturing to a shadowed area near the bar where Will and Mac faced each other in animated conversation.

“I meant earlier. During the service.”

“We were both pallbearers, Don, so he was standing right beside me throughout.”

Don tipped his glass. “He looked better than I thought he would. He and Charlie were pretty tight.”

Sloan ran her finger around the rim of her Cosmo. “ _Too much_. There’s just been too much this week.”

“ _Mush_?” Don grinned. “Slow down with the consumption. You’re beginning to slur.”

She glared at him. “Genoa—the election coverage—Charlie—Will and Mac—now going to D.C.—“

“Who’s going to D.C.? Will and Mac?”

“No, me. Not forever,” she said, barely able to contain a shiver at the thought. “Jim wants an interview with someone.”

“Oh.” Don didn’t press further. He didn’t want to appear unduly interested in what the wunderkind acting EP might be doing.

“So where were you going with this, Don,” Elliot said, hoping to return the conversation to the original topic.

“I was Will’s EP for—well, okay, not for that long, but long enough to know when he’s got something on his mind.”

Elliot’s brows went up and he ducked his head slightly. “And?”

“Not sure what it is. But it might be the reason the newlyweds are arguing right now.”

Elliot’s and Sloan’s eyes snapped back across the room.

Sloan sighed heavily. “First fight. That’s so sad.”

“Honey, I don’t think it’s their first fight,” Don smirked. “But it might be the first one connected to work. I think that the desk talent and the acting president of the news division are at cross purposes about something.” He lifted his glass in their direction before taking another swallow.

“I bet they argue really cool,” Sloan said, too far in her cups to worry about syntactical lapses. “Like—um, Nick and Nora Charles in the old black and white movies.”

“Probably more like Lucy and Desi in old black and white TV shows, but with the accents reversed,” Elliot said dryly. “Heads up, she’s coming over here.”

“Don, Elliot” Mac nodded with a forced smile.

“So sad,” Sloan said by way of greeting, eliciting a look of confusion from Mac.

Don raised his hands in appeasement. “I’ve cut her off already. That’s her last Cosmo.” He bent to her ear. “Why don’t you go say goodnight to Neal and Martin?”

Sloan tottered uncertainly a few tables away.

Mac gave a disapproving frown. “You’re going to make sure she gets home all right?” She assumed his affirmative and didn’t wait for it. “Anyway, I wanted to ask the two of you if you might be interested in a trip to London.”

“Well, the Olympics are finished. What does that leave us, Mac?”

“I did a little namedropping to get a shot at an interview that might help us win back some viewers and credibility. We have to do it in partnership with ITV.”

Don and Elliot exchanged a significant glance before Don hazarded a guess. “Does this have anything to do with the Ecuadorian Embassy?”

“Possibly.”

“ _Assange_?” Elliot looked almost dreamy at the prospect.

“Of course, your father would have the pull to get us in there,” Don said admiringly. “Wait—this doesn’t violate U.S. law, does it? The government’s been talking extradition and we really don’t need to be putting another stick in Uncle Sam’s eye just now.”

“Corporate counsel has cleared it. Ecuador granted him asylum. Besides, you’re just journalists going to an embassy. Who could predict whom you might encounter there?” she mused archly.

“Don’t get me wrong, Mac. This is great. But—“ Elliot hesitated. “Why us?”

“You mean, _why not Will_.”

Both men nodded in unison, Don adding sheepishly, “It is the kind of story that should probably go to the senior man.”

“Will’s pursuing something of his own right now. Will wants to punish the wicked and see justice done,” she said, a disapproving tone in her voice. “I’ll give you the name of someone at ITV and you can coordinate the details.”

 

oooo

 

Don had drawn the wrong conclusion from the disagreement he witnessed earlier between Mac and Will. It had less to do with ACN than the chafing bonds of matrimony.

“Habib called me this morning,” Will stated matter-of-factly, placing a Jameson’s in front of Mac. “I haven’t talked to him for six months, but he called me. _This_ morning.”

“Oh?”

“I told you that wasn’t necessary. I’d like it if you would take me at my word on such matters.”

“I just thought that it might help if you talked—I mean, Charlie was close, and this was sudden…”

“Mac, quit trying to fix what isn’t broken.” His voice was level but he hadn’t looked at her directly since returning with the drinks. “I’m fine. Really.”

“I’m having trouble believing that, Will. There was that little dispute at the cemetery today—“

“That man practically put Charlie in his grave—“

“ _And_ your pursuit of this cloak-and-dagger NSA story. Or, rather, _non-story_ , since it isn’t news and it doesn’t even seem to have a point to be made.” She sighed. “Just because you have a bully pulpit doesn’t mean you get to rain down your idea of karmic justice on someone for having been mean-spirited.”

“Yes, I do, Mac.” He turned to her, blue eyes flashing. “There’s a story here about pettiness and malevolence, and using the guise of government business to facilitate them. About small wrongs that obscure bigger wrongs.”

“And you’re going to expose all this?” She sipped her drink and let the glass fall heavily to the table. “You turned down _Assange_ to go after— _what_? A petty grievance against a low level bureaucrat? Will, you’re obsessing over this. That’s why I want you to talk to Habib. Stop trying to live up to this image of—of a protector.”

 


	6. Chapter 6

Cesare Maldonado, the new man assigned by Blue North, was standing by the car to take them home from Hang Chew’s. He was considerably shorter than Lonny Church and had a slighter build.

Will couldn’t help himself. “I’d feel safer if we were a closer match in height—someone might shoot over your head to reach me.”

“Cheer up. Maybe they’ll just shoot from a window,” Cesare lobbed back, stonefaced, as he opened the door.

Mac snickered, the strain of their earlier exchange vanished, and shot a mildly deprecating look at Will. “Obviously, it’s your stature that puts you in jeopardy.”

He took her hand and followed her into the back of the Escalade, grateful for the opportunity to defuse the tension between them. “Just didn’t think I was going to wind up having to protect my own bodyguard.”

“Not likely,” she stage whispered. “Lonny said he’s a former Navy SEAL.”

“Church said you were like this,” Cesare muttered, giving a long-suffering look in the rear view mirror before he turned his full attention to driving.

Mac leaned into Will in the darkness. “Still cross with me?”

“No.” He draped his arm around her shoulders and pulled her closer. “Why don’t we do something this weekend? Get away for a couple of days?”

“Perhaps in a couple of weeks? I really need to finish sorting things at my flat so we can list it.”

“Okay. Romantic weekend at home. You sort and I’ll research get-away ideas.”

 

When Saturday came, it was rainy and cold and altogether conducive to a day spent indoors.

“Ready?”

When Mac nodded assent, Will pressed a strip of packing tape over the top of the carton, then carried it to the stack of others. He labeled it with block letters. “What else?”

She brushed her hands together in a gesture of finality. “I think we’re almost done. The furniture is staying. We’ve already carried off most of my wardrobe. The movers can pick up the boxes and linens next week.” She rolled her eyes. “I’m glad Rosa already emptied the refrigerator, because that would have been an unpleasant job by now.”

“It’s a nice place,” Will said, sensing Mac’s unspoken nostalgia for it. “Has anyone at work expressed an interest?”

“For most of them, it’s somewhat out of their economic reach. Jim is looking to move, but he has a lease that runs for another four months. We’d have to subsidize him in the short term to get him here.”

“Then let’s do that. He’s acting EP and should be living in something better than the hovel he’s in.” Will opened a cabinet. “Hey. Wine. No point leaving that for Jim.”

She laughed. “Okay, you open it and I’ll phone for delivery. Have a preference?”

“Well, the wines are Merlot and _Geh-wertz-trah_ —“

“Gewurztraminer. It’s a bit sweet. Goes well with Thai food.”

He looked dubious. “If you say so. But I’m opening the merlot first.”

After she finished the food order, he extended a glass and indicated items on the counter. “When I was looking for the corkscrew, I found these and didn’t know if you wanted to hang onto them or not.”

Two military-style identification tags on a small chain. Something that resembled an EpiPen.

“Well, I am sentimental about these,” she said, picking up the dog tags with a slight smile. She passed them to him. “CNN insisted the embeds wear them, and mine did come in handy, what with the rapid availability of blood type.” She let it go at that.  

“What’s this? For some allergy?”

She took the device from him. “Atropine autoinjector. If the troops were exposed to a nerve agent— _sarin_ , for example,” she made a face, neither of them missing the irony, “they were to jab this into their thigh. It’s a premeasured dose that immediately stops the symptoms of a nerve agent. Like an EpiPen except without the epinephrine. It’s something one of the Marines gave me, more of a souvenir than anything I ever would have needed.” She frowned. “I don’t know about toxicity, so we probably shouldn’t simply throw it away.”

“We’ll leave that for Jim,” Will said with a smirk. He put the autoinjector back into the drawer but slipped the dog tags into his pocket.

After the food arrived, Will sent Cesare, who had stationed himself downstairs, home for the night. He uncorked the Gewurztraminer and poured a bit into his glass, sniffing at it with the suspicion of a wine neophyte. He tried it. “Okay. That’s not too bad.”

“Well, there’s a ringing endorsement,” Mac commented dryly. “Here. Try.” And she passed him forkful of green chicken curry.

The second bottle of wine drained at a slower pace than the first had, but, finally, it too was gone.

“That’s a bottle each,” Mac said, just a little taken aback at their consumption and noticing the effects of it. “I’m glad there wasn’t a third.”

“No, but I saw a bottle of Jameson’s—“ Will offered helpfully.

She affected a coy expression. “Was seduction on the menu, Mr. McAvoy?”

“Always.” The corner of his mouth hitched up into a lop-sided smile. “There’s no cable, no satellite, no internet. What else are we going to do for entertainment?”

“Nice to know I’m a fall-back choice.” She tried to sound wryly amused.

“You—“ he placed his hand on her jawline, “you are always first choice.” His fingers wove through her hair and he brought his lips close. “How could I have ever thought that I could live without you,” he murmured, pressing gently into her, his lips touching hers lightly but growing more insistent. His hands slid to her shoulders, pulling her into him.

The kiss—the wine—she felt suddenly out of breath and pushed away. “Will—“

“Is everything all right?” He couldn’t mask his concern.

“Jesus Christ, Billy, you fill all my empty places—sometimes I’m a bit overwhelmed.”

“It must be the wine.” Then, turning, he gently scooped her into his arms and lifted. “Come be mine again, MacKenzie,” he whispered, moving deftly around packed cartons and down the short hallway to the dark bedroom. He set her on the edge of the bed whilst he turned on a light. Then, returning, he gathered the hem of her sweater and lifted it over her head.

He pulled her against him, cradling her so that his left arm angled across her shoulders and his right hand rested on her hip, her head pillowed in the hollow between his neck and bicep. His fingers stroked the gentle curve of her breast, tugging and twisting the nipple into a rigid peak. With his other hand, he dipped between her folds, touching, teasing, re-discovering responses and chiseling away at her defenses.   He led her on a long, torturous build up, loving the feel of her writhing on the brink in his arms. And when she came, it was like a flash of fire

oooo

Neal was exceptionally buoyant at Monday’s pitch meeting. He’d tried to make a case for a new segment, one that would feature only video, no commentary. “Let the news speak for itself,” he enthused.

Jim winced. “You’d be violating one of Mac’s 3 I’s: the one about providing the context for the story. Pictures without words can still be skewed.” But at Neal’s crestfallen expression, Jim retreated a bit. “Let’s see the video and make a case-by-case call.” His eyes dropped down to his notepad. “Oh, and who proofed the ticker Friday night?”

Martin shifted uncomfortably. “Uh—“

Jim tossed a slim paperback at him. “AP Stylebook. Sleep with it under your pillow if that’s what it takes to learn it. But _Marine_ , when used in the context of the U.S. Marine Corps, is _always_ a proper noun. Next? Kendra?”

She leaned forward. “Are we moving on to Title III tonight or staying with Title II?”

She was referring to the provisions of the Patriot Act, which Will seemed determined to dissect on _News Night_. Friday night’s broadcast had focused on the most contentious provision, namely, Title II, governing surveillance procedures. Will had concentrated on the Constitutionality of so-called roving wire-taps.

“Will wants us to stay with Title II for a bit longer.” He capped his dry erase marker and stood back to review the items on the board. “Okay, that gives us the senate pushback on ACA, the rockets fired from Gaza into Tel Aviv, the punitive phase of the Deepwater Horizon spill, and the so-called ‘sneak-and-peek’ provision of the Patriot Act. That’s it, guys. And, by the way, remember that Gary and I are leaving for D.C. tonight after the show and Kendra will be running the meeting tomorrow. Don’t give her any shit.”

There was a collective groan and the staffers filed out.

oooo

Elsewhere in the building, a young man shifted his weight from foot to foot, obviously unnerved at appearing in person in the office of the president of Atlantis World Media.

Reese motioned him closer. “Tell Ms. Halliday what you told me earlier.”

Rebecca Halliday sat in one of the chairs opposite Reese’s desk, as did MacKenzie. But it was Will McAvoy, leaning against the credenza, who was the source of Kevin Buchman’s star-struck anxiety.

_This guy was on TV every night._

Buchman licked his lips. “We recovered the IP addresses from the computer in Washington, as you directed. Then, we correlated those to other staff computers. Mr. Skinner’s. Mr. McAvoy’s.” He dropped his eyes. “We found—“

“Wait. Reese, you looked at my computer to see who I’ve talked to?”

“No expectation of privacy on a workplace computer. _Stengart v. Loving Care,_ ” Rebecca admonished.

Reese waved his hand. “That isn’t the point. The point is—“ He looked back to the IT technician in front of them. “ _You_ tell them.”

“As you know, an IP address, or Internet Protocol address, is a string of numbers that identifies each device in a computer network. We concentrated on 128-bit numbers, based upon the relative immediacy. After eliminating known and anticipated overlaps, we still came up with half a dozen or so commonalities.”   Buchman checked his notes. “Dantana and Skinner had four corresponding IP addresses; Skinner and McAvoy shared three. But after accounting for the other commonalities, as I mentioned, Dantana, Skinner, and McAvoy’s computers had one matching hexadecimal address.” He held up a yellow pad with the following string of characters: 2012:0AA9:CA01:FE03.

Mac shook her head. “I don’t know what hexadecimal means.”

“It’s a way to represent binary values using positional notation—“

“Again, don’t care. Don’t need to know.” Reese shut down Buchman’s attempt to explain binary notation. “What I want to know is, _who_ lives at that address?”

“A government agency. They have blocks of IP addresses and can apportion and subordinate them however they like. It would be virtually impossible to trace further without government cooperation.”

“Can we isolate which government agency?” Reese asked testily.

“Department of Defense.”

Will dropped his arms from where they’d been folded across his chest. He exchanged a glance with MacKenzie, then shifted his gaze to Rebecca. “ONI. It has to be the link. Pressman helped feed the tip to Dantana, either directly or with the assistance of Cyrus West, then followed up with communications to Charlie and me. It fits.”

“It seems too neat—“ Mac started.

“Thank you. Voice of reason. You should all listen to her.” Rebecca zipped her folio and shook her head slowly. “This is not a smoking gun. I can’t use this, Reese. ”

“What the fuck?” He shook his head and made a dismissive gesture to the IT tech, who leaped at the chance to scurry from the office. “I’d like to be stupid right now, but that ship has sailed. Why can’t we use this? The case is nothing but half-baked accusations, so what does it harm if we put forward a few of our own?”

“This case will fall apart of its own volition,” Rebecca said calmly. “We’re just waiting it out.”

“Yeah, and the meter’s running,” Reese muttered.

“Sure is,” she agreed warmly.

oooo

On the fourth ring, the call rolled over to voice mail. “Will, it’s Jim. Just wanted to update you about the visit to ONI. Pressman wasn’t available; we were fobbed off on someone else, a Kathleen Goodman. She’s the deputy in Pressman’s office. You can probably guess the line of bullshit we were fed. Sloan did good, but at best I think we only have B roll stuff here. Heading to NSA next. Mike’s with us for that, too, by the way. Anyway, I’ll catch up to you later.”

Jim slipped his cell back into his jacket pocket and walked back to where the others stood. Mike Tapley, retired military officer and occasional on-air analyst for ACN, had joined Jim, Gary Cooper, and Sloan Sabbith for this visit to Suitland, Maryland. Jim had prevailed upon Tapley to help them navigate not only the physical warren of workspaces at the Office of Naval Intelligence, but also to cut through ordinary military bureaucracy. Not to mention interpret any _Navy-ese_ that defied layman’s understanding.

The three men stood in the crowd of people on the McPherson Square platform of the Washington D.C. Metro line, waiting for the next Orange Line train. Sloan sat on a bench nearby, intent over her BlackBerry. Jim checked his watch again, then looked up at the display listing arriving trains.

“I’m gonna get a soda,” Gary said, indicating a vending machine near the wall. He dug his hands in his pockets. “Shit. Hope it takes folding money, ‘cause that’s all I’ve got.”

“I’ve got a pocketful of coins,” Mike offered. “Be glad to get rid of them. Jim, you want anything?”

“No, thanks. But don’t take too long, the train’ll be here any minute.”

Gary slung the camera over his shoulder and followed Tapley to the vending machine. Mike was counting out the tariff for two Diet Cokes when there was a commotion and yelling behind them.

Sloan had risen in horror, pointing to the edge of the platform.

“ _Motherfuck_ —“ Gary swore, dropping the camera and flying forward. Tapley’s handful of change hit the pavement as he followed.

From the speakers, a garbled voice announced the impending arrival of a train.

Gary reached the edge of the platform and peered over. Down on the tracks, Jim, still stunned from his fall, had recovered enough to get to hands and knees.

Gary dropped down on his stomach. “Take my hand, man. Come on, hurry.”

Jim was still shaking his head with shock and disbelief, trying to orient himself enough to stand.

“Move it, Harper!” Tapley ordered, also falling to his knees and extending a hand. “Leave the bag and get over here.”

Sloan and a crescent crush of on-lookers had surged to the edge of the platform. She could hear voices around her.

_What happened—did you see that—that man pushed—an accident—that was deliberate, no accident, I saw—is he okay, can you see—has anyone called the police?_

Jim had moved closer but still seemed stunned. He saw his bag a few feet away.

“Give me your hand!” Gary shouted again, seeming to finally rouse Jim.

Gary’s fingers locked on Jim’s wrist. There was no mechanical advantage to be found in lifting a man of nearly equal weight from six feet below, and Gary struggled to come back to his knees. Tapley braced an arm on the concrete and grabbed at the collar of Jim’s jacket, affording momentum enough for Gary to hoist Jim near enough to latch onto the lip of the platform. They rolled away from the edge and several by-standers swept the three of them back just as the train rattled past.

“My pack—“ Jim muttered, looking down into the well of tracks.

“It’s gone now.” Tapley brushed at the sleeves of his coat. “You okay?”

“Yeah, okay,” Jim returned shakily, thinking his wellbeing was something of a consolation for the mortal loss of his laptop in the backpack. “Thanks.”

“What happened?” Gary had his head down, his hands braced on his knees, exhaling heavily and trying to quell the adrenal rush still pulsing through him.

“I leaned over to look down the tracks. I guess I lost my balance.”

“You were shoved, man, I saw it all.” A bearded man in a polo shirt pushed toward them. “Tom Phelps. I was waiting for my train and I saw it all.”

“Thanks,” Tapley said, noting the approaching half-run of two uniformed Metro Security officers. “Now stand fast, because we’re gonna want you to give a statement.”

oooo

Will burst into MacKenzie’s office. At the expression on his face, Millie hastily withdrew and Mac herself rose behind her desk, expecting she knew not what except that it must be bad news.

“First off, they’re okay. Jim and Gary and Sloan.”

_Why would they not be okay_ , she thought to ask, but her voice caught. “Where are they?” was what she managed. “What happened?”

“I sent them to D.C. To an interview at ONI. I wanted to amp up Pressman’s stress level. It worked,” he added, grimly.

“And this interview became dangerous?”

“Jim fell onto the Metro tracks—“

“Fell?”

“There’s a witness who claims Jim was pushed—“

Mac ran a hand over her forehead. “You sent them into this?”

“I didn’t send them to fall on the tracks,” Will backtracked, beginning to feel culpable under Mac’s barrage of questions. “I sent them to get someone on the record about this new NSA facility in Bluffdale, Utah. The trail starts with ONI—“

“Only because that’s where you want it to start,” she said quietly. She was standing behind her desk, fingers splayed on the surface in front of her. “Will, this vendetta of yours is no good. It has to stop. It isn’t newsworthy, and now, arguably, it isn’t even safe. If you want to do a post-mortem of the Patriot Act every night for a week, then _do that_ —but don’t fool yourself into believing you’re unraveling some nefarious conspiracy.”

“Mac, there’s something here, I know it.”

“Well.” She dropped her eyes, hating their confrontational stances. She didn’t want to fight with him. “Don’t forget you have a responsibility to the news, the _real_ news. _And_ to our staff.”

oooo

Reese walked around and inspected the shadowbox behind the door.

“Charlie’s stuff still here?”

“It didn’t seem right to force Nancy to deal with that right now, too. But we’re going to start boxing it up next week and store it for when she is ready. We’ll have the office clear in time for the next resident.” Mac toyed with her glasses to conceal a certain small nervousness. She was never entirely comfortable with the Lansing heir’s drop-by visits. “How are the interviews going?”

“Good. I’m leaning toward Jonathan Davies from AP. You know him? A new perspective for us, maybe take us more into live streaming.”

“Davies would be good. Never worked with him myself but I’ve worked with people who did. Very tech savvy. Nothing but raves.”

“Mac,” Reese stopped browsing the memorabilia and turned his attention directly to her. “We got a helluva ratings bump Wednesday night. Three point six million.”

“Maybe the new viewers will give us a chance. Maybe the old ones will give us a second chance.”

“Hirsch and Keefer did a good job. But, you know, I’m curious. Why did Will pass on that story? I mean, it should have been the perfect vehicle for him to rehabilitate _News Night_.”

“ _News Night_ doesn’t need rehabilitation,” she replied shortly, her annoyance plain. “Neither does Will. He simply thought Elliot would do a good interview and deserved the opportunity.”

Millie entered with a manila envelope. “Something couriered to you, marked urgent.”

“Well, his magnanimity probably just cost him a Peabody or a Pulitzer.”

“A Pulitzer is for print journalism,” she corrected, fumbling with the envelope’s clasp. “Will’s confidence in Elliot was well-placed, obviously. Putting Assange and WikiLeaks on _News Night_ would have been over-compensation for Genoa—rather like too loudly protesting our innocence.”

Reese ran a hand over Charlie’s brass spyglass, still at the window. “That’s as patently idiotic as something _he_ would have said.” He looked up quickly. “Charlie, I meant. Not Will.”

Mac held up a hand, signaling Reese to quiet. She reached for the desk phone and punched a button. “Millie, call Security. Let me know when they get here, but _don’t_ allow them to enter. And stay at your desk.” She looked to Reese. “Step to the other side of the room. Use your cell to contact the building manager right away.”

He couldn’t miss the change in her expression, the slight tremor in her usual lilt. “What?—“

“ _Do it now_.”

 


	7. Chapter 7

Neal’s eyes widened as he read the screen. He looked up to pinpoint Jim, then beckoned frantically to him.

“Look at this,” he said, stabbing a finger at the monitor. “This is real-time.”

The alert, evidently culled and relayed from a police scanner, read, “ _Midtown South Precinct_   _e_ _mergency biohazard response in progress 6 th & 42nd 40th floor. Responders bring PPE._”

“That’s here, that’s AWM’s address,” Neal bleated, in case Jim had missed that point.

_Biohazard_?

Jim inclined his head to rest on his closed fist, thinking furiously. “Get Will.” Sending Neal to do it was a concession to the stitches in his shin, memento of his sprawl on rail tracks two days earlier. He pulled out his cell, but before he could press a key Tess materialized at his elbow.

“Jim, I’ve got the D.C. bureau on the line, they say Mac just notified them to take control at the top of the hour. Until further notice. What’s that about?” She was clearly perplexed and waiting for Jim to clarify the situation. Across the bullpen, Kendra, Martin, and Maggie followed the exchange with interest.

The phone vibrated in Jim’s hands as Will came to the bullpen, his face reflecting confusion. “What—“

“Text from Mac.” He held the screen so that Will could read the message.

_Bldg being evacuated. Control to D.C. Get everyone out._

“Bomb threat?”

“Could be. But I’m guessing—“ Jim hesitated, unsure of the response he might provoke. “Some kind of contaminant. Maybe pepper spray or something like that? Responders are being told to wear personal protective equipment.”

Suddenly, two uniformed security personal were at the bank of elevators.

“People—people, listen up.   We need everyone to clear this floor. You can grab your purse if it’s handy, but waste no time putting belongings into briefcases or backpacks. The elevators are all going down to the lobby. We need these elevators full and that means ten to twelve bodies each. The rest of you, head to the west stairwell. Let’s go, people.”

Will moved quickly towards the opposite stairwell where Lonny intercepted him.

“You planning to hike down 23 floors by yourself?”

The consternation on his face made it plain he had intended to go up.

“Whoa. The stairs are running only one direction right now. Down. There’s a uniform on every landing and they’ll turn you around.”

“I’m only getting her voice mail,” Will sputtered by way of explanation.

“She’s got a lot to handle right now. Cut her some slack. She’s probably waiting for you downstairs anyway. Get on the elevator.”

Not quite convinced, Will nonetheless allowed Lonny to lead him to the bank of elevators and press him into the one with Maggie and Martin.

Below, there was noisy confusion as elevators emptied and a steady stream of people emerged from fire exits. The evacuees were met by a police cordon and shunted outside onto the cold, wet pavement. Police tape marked the perimeter and people were guided past it into the street, which itself was in the process of being closed with barricades. Lonny saw two police panel trucks and a knot of cops in mufti. He assumed it was a make-shift incident command post and, tapping Will to indicate he would return, jogged over. A few moments later, Lonny rejoined Will.

“Where’s Mac?”

“Mrs. Lansing is over there. Maybe she knows.” Lonny had prevailed upon his contacts with the South Precinct and now he knew; he just didn’t want to be the one to have to tell Will. It was a cowardly deception.

Leona Lansing looked angry and worried, but her features softened slightly upon recognizing Will. “We’ve been Brokaw-ed,” she spit out, “just like in 2001.”

Will frowned, not following her.

_"Anthrax_.”

He paled and sagged back. Of all possible responses, he had not foreseen this. “Where’s Mac?”

“With my son. They’re being _contained_ and _triaged_ ,” her tone making it clear she was bitterly quoting what she herself had been told. “They’ll be medevac-ed from the roof.”

Will’s gaze shot up but the sky was empty.

Leona continued. “Someone couriered an envelope to McMac. Reese happened to be in the office when she opened it. She knew,” and at this Leona broke off mere recitation and stared at Will. “Mac knew, or suspected, what it was. She had the presence of mind to have Reese kill the ventilation system and start evacuation.”

“Where are they taking them?”

“No one told me, but probably Presbyterian, since it’s their operations team that’s responding.”

“And then? There’s some treatment, right?” He looked agonized.

She put a steadying hand on his arm and looked directly into his eyes. “Yes. There’s treatment. We’re going to make sure they’re okay.” He needed to hear this. Perhaps it would take some of the panic from his eyes.

Something occurred to her. “What’s happening with the broadcast?”

“D.C. has it.” _MacKenzie had had the presence of mind to do that, too._

”I’ll send someone to find you when I learn more. For now—go find your crew. You have a responsibility to them.”

Completely unaware of it, Leona was echoing Mac.

He pivoted to look for Jim or any of the newsroom staff. He knew with certainty what they would, _should_ be working on. They had to get on the air.

 

oooo 

Millie was quarantined, but, because she hadn’t been in the room when the envelope was opened, she was separated from Mac and Reese and not subjected to the vigorous decontamination efforts applied to them. She was even afforded the relative dignity of leaving by ground transport, albeit wearing protective clothing and escorted by two attendants.

Meanwhile, MacKenzie Morgan McHale McAvoy, acting President of Atlantis Cable News, and Reese Lansing, scion of the Lansing media empire, were sequestered in an interior tented room, clad in scratchy surgical scrubs, save for their shoes (which were encased in paper booties), and awaiting a helicopter to ferry them to the decontamination and treatment unit of NYPres. They had been divested of their cell phones and so sat in anxious but bored silence.

“What did it look like? I didn’t even see it.”

“That’s not something to complain about,” she said wryly. “Granular, like sand. Light brown. You really don’t want to have been near enough to see it,” she added, as close as she had come to acknowledging her own peril.

“How did you recognize it?”

“I wasn’t sure. But I remember reading about the scare ten years ago. I mean, what else could it have been? It was either a prank or something incredibly bad.”

“This is going to cost millions. Tens of millions. Decontaminating a whole fucking building. And then, what happens to us?”

She sighed. “I imagine we’ll need new offices off site, at least for the short term—“

“No, I meant to _us_. You and me. We were in the room. What happens to _us_ now?”

“Decontamination. Antibiotics.” This conversation wasn’t getting any better so she made an attempt at gallows humor. “Cremation, while effective, might be premature.”

“Shit.” Reese huffed and fidgeted.   Then, seemingly apropos of nothing, he said, “Remember the day of the Gifford’s shooting? You threatened to call security on me.“

She nodded, lips compressed. This didn’t seem like a particularly fond reminiscence and she had hoped for more comradely conversation, given their circumstances.

“I’m the president of AWM.” He gave a thin smile. “What did you think was gonna happen?”

“I rather thought that _one of us_ would be escorted from the building.”

“Yeah, but which one?” he asked, bringing his chin up in a pugilistic pose. “You had to have known I would have called your bluff, McHale.”

“McAvoy.” She couldn’t think of anything else to say.

“ _Whatever_.”

 oooo

 

Gary had anticipated the need to document what was happening and was already taping with a commercial hand-held by the time Will found him. Tamara and Martin had set out to commandeer a more professional rig, particularly one that would afford live broadcast.

Jim clamped a hand over his free ear, trying to block the noise of the chaos around him, and spoke loudly into his cell phone. “We’ll be able to transmit the tape in about 30 seconds.” He nodded at Neal.  “We’re working on getting a local live feed. Yes, yes, Will’s here, and Sloan Sabbith. We’re going to do this from the street.”

He ended the call and looked for Will. “Is there someone you know, someone you can, um, _lean_ _on_ to get us some equipment? All we’ve got right now is Gary with a Sony hand-held that is strictly tourist-grade.”

Will heard the _whoop-whoop_ of a helicopter and looked up.

“Will? Will? Did you hear me? Do you know anyone—“

Jim’s insistent tone finally broke through. “Yeah. Let me make a call.”

“Great. Sloan’s standing by to go to air.”

Will looked up from his call. “Me. I’m going to do this.”

Jim’s mouth dropped. “Are you sure? I mean, it’d be great, but—“

Will gave a dismissive wave and returned to his cell phone.

Jim grabbed Maggie by the arm. “Get Will a jacket,” he ordered, now that he’d finally realized that in the confusion of evacuation the anchor was only in shirt sleeves. “Get something with the logo. Rip it off someone if you have to. And when you get back, stick to him like his shadow.”

Maggie bobbed her head and went on her mission.

oooo

 

Will’s contact at WNYE-TV was able to provide mobile transmission equipment from its storage facility, conveniently located at the Conde Nast Building, one block from AWM and at the outermost edge of the police barricade. Martin and Gary picked up the equipment while Jim worked to put together a production slate. Herb and Joey had been spirited away to a transmitter truck and were helping to coordinate a remote feed to D.C. Finally, after a hectic twenty minutes of miscommunications and false starts, Kendra cued Sloan with the throw from Washington. Sloan made the first live report from the scene while Will finessed the on-site commander, Deputy Chief Baxter, into agreeing to make on-air comments and expediting a statement to the media.

Elliot and Don arrived on scene a couple of hours later, having learned of the trouble at AWM while waiting in the customs line at JFK. Their arrival afforded breaks to Will and Sloan, not to mention Jim and his crew, who had shouldered most of the work of the impromptu broadcast. After the 10pm press conference, which ACN alone fed live to the press pool, Will was summoned by a Lansing assistant and he and Leona were finally able to head to the hospital.

They were hustled to a waiting area near the isolation ward, where they were met by two men in lab coats. To the side, a woman in a navy windbreaker loitered purposefully.

One of the doctors addressed Leona and Will. “Your son—your wife—the decontamination process is largely completed and they’ve been placed in a sterile area. We’ve started medication—“

“What medication?” Will shot back.

“An anti-bacterial. Ciprofloxacin.” Pause. “You probably know it simply as Cipro. It has proven the most efficacious when dealing with inhalation anthrax.”

“When can I see her?” Will interrupted.

“In a few minutes, please be patient. I would like to tell you specifically what we think we are dealing with. Anthrax is the acute form of a naturally occurring bacteria. It is not communicable in the accepted sense of the word, so there is no need for prolonged hospitalization. We will, however, need to hold them long enough to ensure a thorough decontamination and commence treatment. I think—oh, 72 hours for observation. The incubation period is technically a week, but symptoms would probably appear sooner. Assuming there are no signs of infection at that time, they are home free.” His expression resumed a somber cast. “However, you should be aware that this is still potentially quite a serious episode. Pulmonary anthrax is the most deadly form of the infection, even though antibiotics such as Cipro have dramatically reduced the mortality rate. Pneumonia and respiratory collapse remain possibilities. It is vitally important that the antibiotic we’ve started be continued through the full course of treatment.”

At this, the woman in the windbreaker took control of the exchange.

“Mrs. Lansing—Mr. McAvoy. I’m Special Agent Donna Drake. As I’m sure you appreciate, this matter is now a criminal investigation. You will be allowed to see and talk with your loved ones in just a few minutes, but first there are a few questions I need to ask. Please, be seated.”

Will and Leona were unable to add much substantive information to the timeline of the attack. Leona’s information had come entirely from in-house AWM security and they had almost certainly been debriefed by now.

"Are you aware of any organization or individual that posed a special threat either to Ms. McHale or to ACN?”

Leona snorted. “I’m sure you’ve read the papers. A few months ago we reported a fictitious story that accused the military of using chemical weapons on civilians. Since then, ACN has been under fire by ultra-conservatives, veterans groups, most of Congress, and the entire editorial board of the New York Times. Pick your poison.”

“There was something—an incident last week,” Will said. “One of my producers wound up on the tracks of the D.C. Metro train. There was a witness who said he had been pushed.”

Leona’s eyes flashed. “I didn’t know about this—“

“Ms. McHale mentioned this incident. I have to tell you, though, that according to the Metro police, the witness has been discredited.”

“Why?”

“He worked for a defense contractor. There was a confrontation at work and he had been let go that day.“

“That shouldn’t disqualify his testimony,” Will remonstrated, lapsing into prosecutorial language.

Drake looked knowing and spoke softly. “He isn’t credible. Trust me on this.” She put an end to the discussion.  “Has ACN, to your knowledge, received any threats that suggested a biohazardous material such as anthrax?”

“Check with our blogger. Neal Sampat. He’s usually the one who sees these things on the internet, Twitter or whatever.” Will ran a hand through his hair. “Can I see my wife now?”

 

Mac was in a hospital room that seemed a little emptier and more sterile looking than most. It had a large glass window that looked into an anteroom and she stood in front of it. Will was on the other side.

She looked wan and tired but forced a smile. She could see that he was struggling. “Hi.” She gestured at the glass between them. “I have a new appreciation for tropical fish in aquariums.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, softly. “I’m so sorry, Kenz. I’d do anything to change places with you, you know that.”

“I do know that.” Pause. “I saw the coverage, some of it. You were the best, Will. You and Sloan. Tell everyone they did well, really well.”

“I’m sorry,” he repeated. “I brought all this down—I was the one who kept riling the loonies, kept baiting them. It should have been me.”

“Billy, stop. Let’s not do this now.” She put her hand on the glass. “This is just an— _inconvenience_. Takes me out of action for a few days. That’s all. Send me my MacBook and I’ll call this a working holiday.”

“It’s more than a fucking inconvenience, Mac. Someone evil took a shot at you.” He put his hand on the glass, mirroring hers.

“You know, what’s interesting is that the envelope came addressed to me by name. _MacKenzie McHale_. I think that if it had been one of the nuts who’ve been sending you threats, that it would have been addressed to _MacKenzie McAvoy_.”

“So maybe it was someone who knew you?”

“I think that’s what the FBI believes.”

“Who then? Dantana?”

She gave a short laugh. “No. He may be at the bottom of the barrel, ethically-speaking, but I can’t conceive him doing something like this. He wouldn’t have the imagination to do this—the _anger_ to do this. And, in any event, how on earth could he find access to this—this _stuff_?”

“They want to keep you three days for observation.”

“So I’ve been told.” She gave another uncertain smile. “Well. The decontamination has been a rather unnerving process. Mani and pedi with betadine solutions and a few minutes under a UV light that turned the outermost layer of my skin to ash. Not to mention, farewell to my favorite Louboutins.”

“Well.” He swallowed. “Mac, I—“

“Will, we’re going to get through this. There are drugs for this and the drugs work.” She tried to radiate a positive demeanor. “I love you. Now, go home and get some sleep.”

 oooo

 

Four things of importance happened on Monday.

First, because the AWM building was still off-limits, considered a crime scene as well as a contaminated site, ACN’s New York operations had been temporarily shifted to WNYE, an independent educational channel. The majority of evening programming was still coming from the Washington bureau, owing to New York’s lack of organic assets, but the Sunday morning show became the test platform for a cobbled together effort.

Second, the FBI released a public statement to the effect that the anthrax used was of organic origin, meaning it was considered of insufficient potency to be dangerous to large numbers of people. This went a great way toward calming public concern and expediting the investigation and cleanup of the AWM tower. It did nothing by itself, however, to mitigate the potential threat to the three known exposed individuals.

Third, there was a small editorial in The New York Times:

 

**_Fourth Estate Punches Through Fourth Wall_ **

****

_Fact trumped fiction on Friday last as Atlantis Cable News grappled with terrorism similar to that which struck NBC in 2001. What was novel in this case is that it played out in real time, before the national audience. Not since the morning of September 11, 2001, has the nation been so riveted by an unfolding story._ News Night _anchor Will McAvoy and economist-cum-pinch-hitter Sloan Sabbith worked the street outside the AWM tower, buttonholing authorities and generally trying to articulate the facts of a horrifying and still-developing story. Along the way, the beleaguered ACN, dirtied recently by a scandal over sloppy reporting, partially redeemed itself, demonstrating editorial restraint, resourcefulness, resilience, and professional aplomb. The focus of the on-scene players is all the more laudable as two of their company, acting news chief MacKenzie McHale and corporate president Reese Lansing, were among the ostensible victims. If we and other media outlets were justifiably outraged weeks ago by the charges ACN lobbed at the Pentagon (and later retracted) over the alleged use of sarin, we may be heartened, even admiring, of Friday night’s poised on-air performance by McAvoy and Company, in which reporting was concise and without sensation. We can only hope journalistic ethics have returned to the forefront. Well done._

 

Fourth and lastly—as at least one television economist and one corporate mogul had intuited— AWM stock sank like a freight elevator to hell. At the opening bell, the stock was $43.79; by closing, it had barely clawed back to a shaky $30.12.

oooo

 

On Tuesday, following the FBI statement and with considerable pressure exerted by Leona Lansing, portions of the AWM building were re-opened for use. Floors 25 and below, which had ventilation that could be isolated from the system servicing the higher floors, could be occupied. Most AWM employees approached return to the building with trepidation; after all, anthrax exposure was a complicated and irrevocable prospect. Many of them continued to opt for telecommuting or use of off-site offices. The floors above 25 were still being minutely decontaminated and examined. ACN’s broadcast programming control was finally shunted back to New York, although D.C. was brimming with self-congratulatory excess at having had the spotlight for the weekend.

_News Night_ and _Right Here_ both intended to return to live broadcast on Tuesday night, and the two production staffs held a common pitch meeting, to ascertain a consistent, structured, and unified recap of the anthrax threat.

“First, we’ve got the Syrian counter-attack in Rif Dimashq,” Don opened. “Next, exposition of anthrax. Sorry, guys, we’re still a story. Jim?”

“Medical analyst Janice Gray. She’ll be here live.” Jim capped the dry erase marker. “She’s going to cover symptoms, communicability, and mortality.”

“The big three,” Don muttered. “Then, push-back on Morsi in Egypt—“

“And Title Five.” Will weighed in.

Don sighed. “We’re sure we want to continue this?”

“Title Five of the Patriot Act—also known as, _Removing Obstacles to Investigating Terrorism_. It permits the sharing of data acquired through electronic surveillance. So the NSA can snoop through your electronic garbage and share it with law enforcement—“

“My garbage they can have,” Don said.

“People need to hear this, Don. Americans need to know what’s being done in their name.”    

oooo

 

Also on Tuesday, following considerable back-and-forth discussions between hospital authorities, federal investigators, and the CDC, Millie Epperson, Reese Lansing, and MacKenzie McHale McAvoy were released from the biomedical containment ward of NYPres.

Will met Mac and pressed her to him for the drive home.

“Mac.” Will’s voice was low but firm. “You are staying home today. And tomorrow.”

“Will, I’ve been bored out of my skull for the last three days, please let me—“

“No. Absolutely not. I can give you a dozen reasons why. There’s nothing you can do there that you can’t do at home just as effectively. Teleconference or skype your heart out. Reese and Millie won’t be back to work yet. You don’t even have an office right now; everything above the 25th floor is still sealed up tight.”

“Jim and I can share—“

“No.” He tilted her chin so he could look directly into her eyes. “Even though all the bright young twenty-somethings we work with know or should know that anthrax isn’t communicable, there are other people to consider—perhaps not as well-educated but who desperately want to come to work because they need a paycheck. Janitors. Clerks. Security personnel. And they might have a little residual fear if they think they can ‘catch’ anthrax from someone who’s been exposed. The incubation period is only another 48 hours. Wait for the all-clear. Please, Mac. Don’t fight me on this.”

She seemed to acquiesce, but by the time they arrived home it was clear her silence only marked the end of round one.

“Leona will need help coordinating the cleanup—“ she insisted.

“Trust me, the professionals are already on this one. CDC. FBI. Anyway, Leona’s got her hands full in the boardroom right now. You can coordinate to your heart’s content from right here in our living room.”

She glared before surrendering. “I’m made of stronger stuff, you know.”

“I know. No one sees this as a character flaw.”

“I’ll be back Friday.”

“Of course. No symptoms in a week and you ’ll be in the clear.” He leaned and kissed her. “Now, go take your Cipro, and I’ll see you in a few hours. Someone in the family has to go earn some money—“

“Watch it, pretty boy.”

oooo

 

He returned promptly after the show and they had a late supper of stir fried chicken and vegetables while sitting on the sofa, watching Elliot’s show.

“How about a week in London over Christmas? As a belated honeymoon?”

She made a face. “Do you know what London is like in December? Incredibly like New York, except with more rain and even less daylight. How about Bermuda?”

“What side of the road do they drive on?”

“Forget it.”

He eyed her plate. “More?”

“A little. I’ll get it. Non-hospital food tastes great. Plus the side effects of the Cipro are abating and I feel hungrier.” She took both plates and returned with another serving. “How about Spain? It’s sunny and warm.”

“I’ve never been to Spain—“

“ _No, no, don’t_ —“

“—But I kind of like the music.”

She groaned. “How many decades have you waited for that opportunity?”

He put down his plate and reached for the iPad. “I’m on it. Spain. Where—Barcelona?”

“I was really thinking of Malaga. Warmer, smaller, fewer language barriers. Beaches.“

While he researched, she took away the plates and refilled their wine glasses.

“I’ll be back in your ear next week or the week after, you know.”

He looked up. “Oh? Reese found someone?”

“Jonathan Davies. From Associated Press.”

“Never heard of him.”

“He’s got a good reputation.”

“You going to miss it?”

“I wouldn’t have thought so—three weeks ago, of course, I never even considered such a possibility. But—yeah. It’s been interesting, the variety, the sheer scope of things as seen from Charlie’s office. Of course, it will be nice to get back to you and Jim and the control team.”

He grunted, seemingly focused on the web site. Then, he looked up from the tablet. “The other night—why did you text Jim and not me?”

“What?”

“Last Friday. I kept trying to reach you. You sent Jim—“

“I told Jim to evacuate the staff.” She adopted a pedantic tone. “I could be one-way with Jim. You would have argued with me.”

“Damn straight.” Then he added, “That’s because I’m supposed to be the one protecting you.”

“Will.” She shook her head indulgently.

“You should have called or texted me, not Jim.”

Surprised by his vehemence, she murmured, “I’ve been in dangerous places before. I’ve learned I can’t rely on protection from everything—“

“You have an obligation to me, MacKenzie. This isn’t hurt feelings, or me being hypersensitive about some unimportant something. You have to rely on _me_.” He swung around on the sofa so that he was facing her. “Your self-reliance is admirable, except when it comes to _me_.

“Do you know the last thing Charlie said to me, when I visited him there at the hospital? He told me to be accountable. I didn’t know what the fuck he was talking about. I wasn’t even sure I heard him correctly. Accountable for the show? Content? Ratings? Stockholders? But I don’t think that’s what he meant. I’ve thought about it a lot and I’ve come think he was telling me to be accountable to you. Answerable to you. Understand my obligation to you.

“I promised to take care of you. I’m not going to slough that off. And I won’t let you slough off your responsibility, either. When it comes to me, your wings are clipped, lady.”

oooo

 

Indefatigable Mac, inexhaustible Mac sailed back into work Thursday morning, having argued and dispatched all of Will’s reasons for staying at home another day. She tried to allay union concerns in a conference call, soothed Reese’s worries about the expense of the cleanup, and chaired a technology meeting focusing on live streaming. By early afternoon, she was seated at the restaurant table when Sloan arrived.

“Sorry I’m late,” Sloan said, sitting down. “You look good, Kenzie. I mean, after everything. How’s Will?”

“Worried. You know.”

“He was terrified last week. Freaking out of his mind. There’s no way he would have gone on the air Friday night, if there had been a chance for him to see you.”

Mac shook her head. “Everyone was better off with him at ACN, even on the sidewalk in the rain. At the hospital, there was just a lot of confusion and waiting, and Will would have been knocking heads together—and I still would have been in isolation and not been able to see him for hours.”

The server came with a bottle of chardonnay and glasses.

“I hope you don’t mind.”

“As long as we’re not implying the job is driving you to drink.”

“No. Actually, it’s a bit of a bribe, because I’m about to make a pitch.”

They ordered their lunch then Mac returned to her point. “Jane Barrow is leaving her spot, leaving ACN entirely. Not the worst thing to happen to us, by the way. I know you were expecting that you’d move up to anchor, perhaps bridging Will and Elliot, but I’ve decided to let Terry keep the spot for now and pull someone else for Jane.”

“Oh.” Sloan bit back disappointment and a little humiliation. She thought she’d proven herself—thought she’d made herself an asset to ACN. It hurt to realize she wasn’t, and it hurt more to have the news delivered by her friend.

Mac interrupted the other woman’s thoughts. “Sloan. Don’t take that the wrong way. You’ve done a great job—you’ve been great as a relief anchor for both Elliot and Will. You were the linchpin of the broadcast last Friday night.

“Reese and I had time to talk about a new direction for ACN. We had a lot of time to talk, actually, more than either of us ever would have wanted,” she added as an aside, smiling. “I think he’s found a permanent replacement for Charlie, but I wanted to push for this while I still could. Anyway, he’s given the go ahead to develop a financial news channel, _a la_ CNBC or Bloomberg. We want you to be the cornerstone and we want to go to air beginning February. _Atlantis Financial News, AFN_. How about it?” She paused to gauge Sloan’s reaction. “Pick your staff. If you want to poach anyone from _News Night_ —well, I’ll do what I can to smooth it over with Will.” Mac’s eyes crinkled in pleasure at the news she was delivering.

“You’re kidding—“ Sloan’s face registered astonishment and she sputtered with pleasure. “This could be so—I know some people you’d want to have on the air—and we could devote an hour a day to muni bonds, only munis—and a live segment from the CBOT—‘

“HR is putting together an offer. It won’t be what Blackrock would have paid you, but you’ll get the satisfaction of building something from the ground up. Plus, I think Reese is inclined to sweeten the offer with AWM stock options—“

“Not worth what they were this time last week,” Sloan noted wryly.

“Not to mention wardrobe.”

Sloan looked momentarily confused.

“Versace. Dior. Valentino.”

“Where do I sign?”

oooo

 

A news story equal in import to the anthrax story but subtler began to emerge the following week, when Neal noticed a pattern in various Tweets and low-level news alerts. Spontaneous data outages of government web sites moved quickly from coincidental to calculated, and it became apparent that they were toppling like dominoes. Large swaths of public access web sites belonging to the Executive and Legislative branches—including the Departments of Interior, Agriculture, Veteran’s Affairs, Treasury, Commerce, Labor, OMB, Energy—were being subjected to Distributed Denials of Service.               

“This is massive,” Neal exulted. “Everything—“

Mac watched the screen over Neal’s shoulder and instinctively corrected him. “Not _everything_. There’s still at least a half dozen. And Justice and Defense haven’t been compromised.”

“ _Yet_ ,” Neal finished.

“Perhaps.” MacKenzie wasn’t convinced. “Perhaps they have better cyber security,” she allowed, “but perhaps they would be too provocative. Perhaps they would only gum up the message, whatever it might be.”

“The message.” Neal rocked back in his chair and thought for a moment. He looked startled by the conclusion he reached. “Mac, that’s it. It might be _Anonymous_.

“Well, anonymity will serve whoever it is well when federal law enforcement—“

“No, _Anonymous_. The group of on-line vigilantes. Remember, with the Guy Fawkes mask? It’s a collective of computer hackers who strike against what they perceive as censorship. They led a cyber-attack in 2010 against the major credit card companies, in retaliation for discontinuing to process donations to WikiLeaks; before that, there was the clash with the Scientologists.” In his sudden enthusiasm, he rose and began moving his hands. “Anyone can join, all they have to do is claim affiliation. _Anonymous_ has never shown an interest in damaging public infrastructure or putting the general public at risk. Look at the federal agencies without the denial of service. Transportation. Education. Health and Human Services. Housing. They’re all public service-oriented.”

“I can’t imagine Justice and Defense would be viewed by hackers as public service-oriented,” she reminded him.

He turned his palms up and shrugged. “Perhaps you’re right, and those agencies just have too much protection for a cyber-attack. In fact—perhaps it’s happening right now, but it just isn’t as easy a nut to crack as the others.”

“Hmm.” She rocked back. “Well, stay on it.”

Two hours later, he was in her office, bristling with excitement.

“The Justice web site has gone down. Server overload. Mac, this is a coordinated attack. And there’s speculation—“

“Go on,” she prompted, still dubious.

“That it’s related to us. To ACN.”

She squeezed her eyes shut, hoping Neal had drawn the wrong conclusions. ACN didn’t need more notoriety.

“Check the hashtags #ACNincident and #somethingbiganon.”

oooo

 

Mid-morning the following day, during the first rundown meeting, Will’s phone vibrated.

_Caller blocked._

He normally let blocked calls roll over to voice mail. More often than not, they were wrong numbers, telephone solicitations (political, charitable), or butt calls. Some of his contacts at the Department of Justice and at the city prosecutor’s office were blocked. But the relative infrequency of such calls nagged at him to take this call.

Will left the conference room, answering on the third ring.

There was a sigh on the other end of the phone. “McAvoy. It’s time for the finale of this piece, don’t you think?”

“Who is this?”

“You don’t need to know my name. You just need to know who I am—and I am the officious villain of your piece.” The voice paused. “Come on over and let’s chat. Fifth and 33rd. Suite 2525.”

“Will?” Jim hung out the conference room door. “Everything all right?”

He took several long seconds to answer. “Yeah. Jim, I’ve got to go out. If I’m not back in a couple of hours, have Sloan take the show.”

Will went to his office, reached for his leather jacket, and started for the door. He hesitated. Then he turned back, grabbing at the gray Armani that hung behind the door.

The voice on the other end of the phone needed to understand who he was, too.

oooo

 

Suite 2525 was an unremarkable office front. Once through the door, it looked like a generic professional office: waiting area, reception desk behind sliding frosted glass, a long corridor of closed doors. Will rapped at the glass.

“Mr. McAvoy.” The young woman betrayed no hint of recognition; Will immediately knew being greeted by name was owing to his having been expected, rather than _News Night_ celebrity. “Follow me, please.”

She led him three doors down and opened the door, careful to remain in the corridor herself.

The room was appointed with only a desk and three chairs. Two open document boxes sat on the floor, piled to overflowing with papers.

“Enjoying your Howard Beale moment, McAvoy?” The man, a decadent middle-aged sort in a shirt and tie, moved papers around on his desk.

“Who—?“

“I told you, my name isn’t important. You wouldn’t recognize it. Call me Dave, if that works for you.” He gestured to a chair in front of the desk. “You might as well get comfortable.”

Will dropped stiffly into the chair.

Dave put his fingertips together. “Well. I imagine the first topic you’ll want to talk about is Shep Pressman.”

“Yeah, let’s start with him.”

“Not surprisingly, he denies both incidents. Pushing Harper onto the rails and the envelope couriered to your wife. The first may have legitimately been simply the press of the crowd. Harper may have fallen. He told the police that he didn’t recall having been pushed.”

“There was a witness—“

“That so-called witness has some severe credibility issues: he worked for a contractor and his clearance had been revoked over allegations of domestic abuse. He’d just returned from threatening his former supervisor when he turned up as the sole witness to Harper tumbling onto the rails. Granted, Pressman was out of his office that day and has no good alibi for his whereabouts…” His voice trailed off. “But there’s nothing conclusive.

“The second incident, however, the one with Lansing and McHale and the anthrax—that was, if I may say, amateurish in a singularly professional way.”

“I don’t know what the fuck you’re saying.”

Dave leaned forward. “Weaponized anthrax has a unique fingerprint. But this wasn’t weaponized anthrax, it was—“

“Off the shelf?” Will asked caustically.

“Kind of. This appeared related to early attempts by Yugoslavia during the early Cold War period. Rather like the car, the Yugo—clunky and inefficient.”

“Well, if anyone’s going to try to murder my wife and the president of the company I work for, I’m sure grateful to them for using the _inefficient_ stuff,” Will returned, sarcasm in his words and inchoate anger in his voice.

“Pressman was in the Balkans last year, doing a project in support of the consuls.”

“So he had the opportunity.”

“Yes. But he vociferously denies it.”

“What a surprise.” Will seethed, feeling his suspicions had just been confirmed. “And Charlie Skinner?”

“That, anyway, is not a mystery. No one killed Charlie Skinner. He drowned himself in an ocean of whiskey and it took forty years to happen.”

Will shifted tact. “Talk to me about Global Clarity. Was Solomon Hancock’s death connected to his having contacted us last year?”

“No. I am at least sure of that. Hancock was a troubled man. Estranged from his family. He’d had depressive episodes before. It was never going to end well for him.”

“Did Pressman, or _you_ , make sure of that, too?”

“Stop.” Dave held up his hand. “There was no way for us to have known Pressman had a hard-on for ACN.   We had nothing on him. If he orchestrated the embarrassment of ACN through your D.C. producer, or the harassment of Skinner, or nudged your other producer onto the tracks, or even if he somehow managed to smuggle back anthrax—it was just counting coup to him. And I’ll say this again for possible penetration: we have _nothing_ on him. You’re a fucking prosecutor. I don’t have any evidence.”

“Just like that, he gets off. No consequences.”

“I didn’t say that.” Dave pushed back in his chair. “We don’t dump people out of helicopters, you know, but I have a long reach—“

“So do I.”

He looked hard at Will. “Pressman wound up at ONI after his son’s suicide. It’s SOP for someone in a sensitive position to be cossetted a bit after a traumatic personal event, like a suicide. Because it makes them, _and us_ , vulnerable. So we sent him to ONI for a year, to get better.”

“How’d that work out for you?” Will asked coolly.

Dave stood and walked around the windowless room. “You ever been to Guantanamo, McAvoy? It’s the American Gulag. Even the wardens are prisoners. There are no commercial flights, and there’s a mine field separating the naval base from the rest of Fidel’s Cuba. You can’t leave it unless you’re _permitted_ to leave. Yeah, even the good guys.” He folded his arms across his chest. “Pressman’s gone to Gitmo for five years. Special project for the NSA. It’s all I can do, legally and with his cooperation—but it gets him off your radar for five goddam years.”

“He fucking poisoned my wife— _my wife_ —“ Will’s jaw torqued.

“For what it’s worth, I believe that. But Gitmo’s the best I can do. You know what they say: good enough for government work.”

“You son of a bitch.”

Dave shrugged. “ACN became a _cause celebre_ last week. _Anonymous_ adopts you as a pet project and tries to avenge the anthrax attack by executing mass denials of service against government web sites.”

“Only because the hacktivists assumed the anthrax was connected to our recent story on Julian Assange and WikiLeaks.”

“The near-deification of that stringy haired albino is something I’ll never understand.” Dave let a look of disgust cloud his face. Several moments of silence passed. Then, he spoke again and this time, a smile played on his lips.

“Why are you here today, McAvoy? Why do you think I invited the intimidatingly well-dressed liberal mouth-piece to my office?”

“To explain about Pressman—“

“Fuck that. I don’t owe you explanations.”

“You want me to help call off _Anonymous_.”

“I don’t think you have the clout to do that. Anyway, they’re like flies to an elephant. An annoyance, that’s all. What does that leave?”

“You tell me.”

Dave stood and pulled on his jacket. “Lately, you’ve been sounding like the ‘mad prophet of the airwaves.’ I watch the show. Not every night, but most nights. I don’t question your motive in informing. Using your pulpit to crusade for whatever you happen to believe in. You’ve been devoting a lot of time to the Patriot Act. To electronic surveillance. To our little facility in Utah.”

“You want me to stop?”

“No. I want you to make it louder.”

Will’s face slackened in surprise. “You want—“

“Force a national dialogue about the _ends-justify-means_ mindset we have had since nine-eleven. Take on the little shits in Congress who wrap themselves in flags every four years and don’t have the attention span of a tapeworm, who never think to ask hard questions, of themselves or anyone else. They aren’t restricted to one party, there are plenty on both sides of the aisle.” He sat on the edge of his desk. “You know, McAvoy, someone has to keep the gate. Right now, the good guys are still guarding the gate—“

“You’re a good guy?” Will sneered.

“Goddam right I am. And one day soon, the pandering politicos will have replaced people like me with appointees and shallow careerists, with people who find it easier to carry out orders than to question them. Your Shep Pressmans. That’s going to be a problem for the whole country.” He sighed audibly. “I wish you luck with trying to inform the electorate. I can’t help you, and I wouldn’t bet on your odds, but I wish you luck. Because Americans don’t care. You won’t be able to make them care. You see, your business is sensation, constant stimulation. So a story about a bunch of spooks sitting in the desert, collecting signal intercepts—largely from people Americans dislike and distrust anyway—just isn’t going to lead the newscast. Not for long. Eventually, perhaps even by next week, there will be a story that will take this one off the news. An assassination, a coup d’état, rebels in Nigeria, a mudslide in California or a toxic dump in Texas.   _Anthrax_.” He shrugged. “You won’t be able to sustain this story.”

Dave stood expectantly, so Will rose as well.

“One last thing. Call this my apology for Pressman.” Dave slid a folder across the desk. “I’m handing you Dantana’s ass.”

Will opened the folder and scanned the top sheet. He shot a hard look to the other man. “Should I ask how you got this information?”

“I’m fucking NSA.”

“This doesn’t exonerate ACN. It just indicts Jerry.”

“Take your victories where you can find them, McAvoy.”

oooo

 

A few mornings later, MacKenzie and Jim sat in Will’s office.

“He dropped the suit? Just like that?” Jim was clearly baffled.

“Well, ACN did agree to pick up his tab for reasonable legal fees. Rebecca thinks we can get out of it for less than a quarter million.”

“What about the other action?”

“Dantana settled with Stomtonovich, too. The general never wanted money, just vindication.”

“Don’s case?”

Will responded cagily. “Still on. For now. Rebecca’s pretty sure it will be dropped as well.”

“Sweet.” Jim glanced at the ACN monitor, realizing the hour by the images he saw there. “Time for the four o’clock. Will--?”

“I have to skip it. Meeting upstairs.”

“Okay. Mac, good seeing you. Hope I haven’t trashed your office too badly.” The glass door closed silently behind him.

She gave Will a querulous look. “That was a well-edited version of the truth.”

“That, my dear, was the greater fool in pursuit of a greater good.” He gave a self-deprecating huff. “When I was a law student, this would have been considered _fruit of the poisonous tree_ : evidence obtained illicitly is tainted. You can’t miss the irony in that accepting the dirt on Dantana, I ceded the moral high ground.”

“If it was obtained under the Patriot Act, then it wasn’t illicitly gained. And you said this NSA man was also obliged to give it to law enforcement as well. We’re just… unintended beneficiaries.”

“Hmm.” Will was still bothered. Even if it was legally obtained, it sure wasn’t legally shared with ACN. However, he couldn’t muster any sympathy for a purveyor of kiddie porn, and it did inspire Dantana to drop action against ACN. But there was something very dirty about it. Even Rebecca had viewed it with distaste.

"Time to go, Will. Reese is expecting us.”

He escorted her through the door and across the bullpen. “You know what this is about?”

“Millie told me Jonathan Davies has been here all day, getting settled in. I rather imagine Reese is going to introduce us and dismiss me from the executive suite.” She leaned into him as he pressed for the elevator. She squeezed his hand. “I’m glad you’re coming with me. Makes me feel all courageous.”

Reese met them as they came off the elevator. “Jonathan Davies is finishing with HR and will be joining us. I wanted to introduce you.”

She nodded and exchanged a knowing look with Will.

“But first I want you to have a look at something.” He walked them to the suite at the north corner. Under the plate that read _President, Atlantis Cable News_ , was another smaller one, but on it was only a large M with a superscript numeral 4.

“That’s just until we sort out the whole name thing. Or maybe it will grow on you and we’ll leave it that way.” Reese grinned in self-pleased delight, but as it became apparent that the connection wasn’t sinking in, his smile faltered. He looked to Will for help.

“Hon—what I think Reese is trying to—“

“I don’t understand—Jonathan Davies is here—you need to get this fixed before he—“”

“Mac.” Reese hadn’t often called her that, seeming to prefer the imperiousness of last names or even the vaguely condescending nickname assigned by Leona, _McMac_. “I’m bringing Davies onboard as a consultant for live streaming. He’ll report to the president of the news division. Um—“ Reese paused. “That’s you. Permanently.” At her flabbergasted expression, he added, “There was never any other candidate. How could you not have known that?”

Will leaned against the wall, arms crossed and wearing a confident smile. “Mac. I’m thinking you should say yes.”

She looked back to Reese, confused and surprised. “Why?”

“Stepping in for Charlie at a crucial moment. Extraordinary grace under fire concerning the fallout of Operation Genoa. Rehabilitating _News Night_. Not that it needed rehabilitation, of course,” Reese amended, given the company. Will rolled his eyes. “The Assange interview. Putting together the concept for AFN. _Anthrax,_ for Christ’s sake.” Reese stepped closer. “But mostly because, on the day of the Gifford’s shooting, I really do believe you would have had my ass escorted from my own building.”

“Will?” She looked to him as well.

“I’ll give up having you in my ear for one hour a day, as long as you’re there the other 23.”


End file.
